Page 83 of Tempest

“Okay,” she says, getting up to give him another hug. “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you, too. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

She waves at me, which I return with a soft smile before she leaves.

“Ode,” he says, snagging my attention back to him. But just then, Coach Cole walks in with two other people.

“How are you feeling, buddy?” Coach asks him.

“I keep telling everyone I’m fine,” Gavin says. “Wish someone would start believing me.”

One of the other men shines a light in Gavin’s eyes. The room is small, and I feel in the way. Or like an interloper, somewhere I’m not supposed to be. Yet I don’t want to leave Gavin, either.

A lot of medical terms are thrown around, but at the end of it all, the general consensus is that because he lost consciousness, he needs to be on concussion protocol with another assessment in about twenty-four hours, then another in forty-eight. He’ll miss tomorrow’s game. The tension in his jaw tells me he’s pissed about that, but he doesn’t make a fuss.

Everyone leaves. As soon as the door shuts behind them, Gavin’s shoulders slump.

“It’s for the best, Gavin.”

“I know,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t fucking hate it. You go home, too; I’ll clean up and head over when I’m done.”

“Britton is there tonight.”

“I don’t fucking much care.”

“Okay.” He grabs my hand as I start to walk past, stopping me. Neither of us says anything else, it’s more a silent communication. I imagine he’s trying to explain why Caroline was here, while I’m trying to convey I’m ignoring it because I’m just thankful he’s okay.

I’m trying to ignore how much it hurt because I don’t want to cause him more stress.

I did that same thing once before.

“I’ll see you soon,” he finally says, and I leave with a simple nod.

I have to call an Uber to get home, but it gives me the opportunity to call Fallon, who rants about Josephine and her dramatics. She has an event the day after tomorrow and refuses to wear anything he’s offered.

By the time I get home, I’m vacillating between flying to Los Angeles first thing in the morning to handle her, or just firing her. Neither option is very appealing.

My step falters at my front door. A new bouquet was delivered. Large, beautiful, full of bright tiny yellow flowers. The same my mother used to plant. So similar to the wedding arrangements etched in my memory.

I take a long, deep inhale. So slowly, so calmly, I push the bouquet off the table inch by inch, watching the edge of the vase as it begins its unbalanced dance onto the marble floor below. The sound of glass breaking is somehow cathartic.

Or I’ve completely lost my fucking mind. Who can say?

“Odette,” Britton calls from the top of the stairs.

“Don’t come down in bare feet,” I say. “I broke the vase.”

“Is Gavin okay?” she asks, peering over the banister at the mess I made.

“I think so. They’re keeping a watch on him for a few days to be sure.”

I view the pieces of glass, the dim reflection of the hanging entryway light twinkling on a few of them. Is that what my heart looked like from the inside when Gavin broke up with me? Of course not, heartbreak is a metaphor. It’s not real.

The pain is. The lasting effect. Obviously.

“Are you okay?”

“No, darling.” A laugh bursts out of me, and I feel like I’m verging on hysteria. “Caroline was with him. When we finally got to see him, she was already there.”

---