Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

MAYA

M y phone buzzes from my pocket, but I can’t check it now. Doctor Johnson, an older lady with a kind demeanor and a gentle voice, tells me what happened to Mom. It takes everything I have to keep myself together.

“Your mother has developed pneumonia. In the early stages, it can start with symptoms like a persistent cough, sometimes with phlegm, a low-grade fever, and increased shortness of breath. Given her ALS, these symptoms can be particularly challenging because her respiratory muscles are already weakened.”

“Uh, okay,” I murmur, my voice becoming strangled as my tears threaten to choke me.

She gives me a small smile of support. “What we see with her right now are these early signs. Her oxygen levels are lower than normal. She’s breathing faster and using her neck and shoulder muscles to help her breathe. She’s also having trouble clearing her throat, which can lead to more severe infections if not managed properly.”

I squeeze my hands together, almost like I’m praying.

“Pneumonia in ALS patients needs careful monitoring and treatment, which we’ve started here in the hospital. We’re giving her antibiotics to fight the infection and providing respiratory support to help her breathe more comfortably.”

The doctor pauses, then glances at the seats just off to the side, where Riley is waiting. I’m too wired to sit down.

She goes on, “Considering her condition and the progression of her ALS, I want to discuss the best long-term care options. At home, it can be incredibly challenging to manage the complexities of ALS, and now, with this added respiratory issue. It’s crucial to ensure she has round-the-clock care and access to medical professionals who can respond quickly to any changes in her condition.”

“I know,” I say, as a familiar note of defeat rises in me. “I’ve known that for a long time. I think I’ve just had trouble admitting it.”

“It’s not easy,” she replies with genuine sympathy. “However, I recommend that we consider transferring her to a specialized care facility, a nursing home equipped to handle ALS patients. These facilities have the necessary medical equipment and trained staff to provide her with the proper intensive care. They can manage her respiratory support, help with her nutrition and hydration, and provide therapies to maintain her comfort and quality of life.”

She reaches forward and touches my arm. Something in the steadiness of her gaze tells me people like me many times. “I understand this is a difficult decision, but it’s about ensuring she gets the best care in a safe environment. It’s not an easy transition, but it’s the best way to ensure her health and well-being. A nurse will let you know when you can see her.”

The doctor leaves us, and I drop down in the chair beside Riley, slumping down in defeat. Tristan just texted asking which hospital. I almost don’t tell him. It wasn’t even a whole workday ago that he told me we had to stay away from each other.

“This is my fault,” I whisper.

“What?” Riley snaps. “Don’t say that.”

“If she were in a home, they would’ve noticed the symptoms sooner.”

“Stop, Maya,” Riley says fiercely. “Don’t even start down that road.”

My shoulders slump as I glance at my phone again. I called him without even letting myself consider other options, other people. Tristan is the only one I wanted to be with, the only one I think can make any of this even a tiny bit better.

I quickly type a reply, telling him which hospital.

“I’ll give you two a minute,” Riley says when Tristan arrives.

Several nurses sneak glances at Tristan as he walks by: tall, handsome, and in control. Despite everything, I want to yell at these nurses and tell them he’s mine . Nuts, nuts, nuts! Yet, does it feel true?

He walks up to me quickly. I think things will be awkward, but he grabs my hands and pulls me to my feet. “Oh, Maya.”

I wrap my arms around him, forgetting about earlier. When I press my face against his chest, he moves back slightly. I can feel him trying to create some distance between us, not just physically.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, even if it’s not, even if it hurts. “I get it. We’re just friends now.” I pause after my bitter words. “I’m sorry. If it wasn’t for you?—”

“Don’t make this about the money,” he says coldly. “Your mother deserves to get the help she needs.”

Another pause. It feels like it’s full of so much potential.

What do we deserve, Tristan? That’s what I want to ask him. What do we get out of this … this what? This short-lived, hot-as-hell steaminess?

“Can I ask you something personal?” I murmur.

He looks down at me with twinkling eyes. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say there’s something like obsession in his gaze. It’s how he looks at me like nothing, and nobody else exists or matters.

“Sure.”

“Who’s Vanessa?”

He flinches. “Where did you hear that name?”

“The Mob guy who came by threw it in my face.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“If she’s an ex, does it even matter now?”

When he flinches again, I almost yell at him. He doesn’t have the right to look wounded about this. Moving over to the chairs, he slumps down with a sigh. I sit beside him, almost taking his hand, but the atmosphere is tense and uneasy between us.

“You might not like hearing this,” he says.

“It doesn’t matter what I like. I just want to know.”

The truth is, I have to know, but I won’t go that far.

“Vanessa,” he spits like he hates her name. “It started with a one-night stand after a long deployment. I needed to blow off steam, which felt harmless at the time. Then she started calling me constantly and appearing unannounced whenever I was on leave. It intensified quickly, and I didn’t know how to handle it.”

That reminds me of us, but I don’t say that. Jealousy twists through me at the thought of Tristan with another woman, but he’s in his thirties. What did I expect, for him to be a virgin, too?

“One night, I got drunk—really drunk. She found me at our usual hangout and practically dragged me back to her place. We ended up in bed again.” He sighs tiredly. “This is going to sound like an excuse. I honestly didn’t want it, but I was too wasted to remember what happened. A few weeks later, she told me she was pregnant. She was sure it was mine. That was also when she admitted she’d spiked my drinks with ED meds that night.”

“Oh, Jesus,” I whisper.

He nods. “Yeah. It’s fucked. I felt violated and just … I’m not sure how to describe how I felt. I was still in the Marines at the time, and I had to head back to work. When I came home, she told me she wanted to be my wife, but I didn’t love her; I didn’t want to be with her. We had this massive fight. I told her I wasn’t ready for a kid, not with my life and schedule. She wouldn’t hear it. She kept pushing, and I pushed back harder. The things we said to each other were … brutal. I was angry, scared, confused.”

Now, I can’t stop myself. Reaching over, I squeeze his hand. I can practically feel the pain and the rage coursing through him like he’s reliving it all.

“When she realized I wasn’t going to bend, she decided to get an abortion. We had another vicious argument about it. I didn’t know how to feel—relieved, guilty, ashamed. It tore me up inside. I felt like I’d failed her, failed myself, failed that unborn child.”

There’s another long pause. I want to offer him more comfort and make him see this wasn’t his fault. He’s not a bad man.

“That’s why I’ve been so distant with you. I didn’t want to drag you into that darkness. It’s not fair to you, but I had to tell you. It’s a part of me that I can’t seem to shake, a wound that hasn’t healed. I’ve been carrying this weight, trying to keep it from crushing me, and I didn’t want it to crush us, too.”

“Us,” I whisper, leaning over to put my head against his shoulder.

That seems to wake him up. He leans away and then stands. He’s shaking all over. It was clearly difficult for him to share this.

“But there is no us , right? That’s what you’re going to say,” I mutter.

“I’m sorry,” he growls.

I leap to my feet, staring up at him. “Who do you think you’re fooling, huh? Me? Yourself?”

There’s something real here. Something neither of us has felt before .

“I’m sorry,” he says again, sounding defeated this time as he turns away.

I watch him go, wrapping my arms around myself, trying not to think of all that pain in his past. Or the other thought that won’t quit, the one whispering through me with a sense of urgency. We could do better, Tristan. You won’t want to run when we start building our life together.