Page 84 of Running Feral

That’s when it kind of hits home just what he means. He really fixed everything for me. This guy who I barely even know—probably because he’s grateful to Gunnar, like the rest of us—risked god-knows-what and blotted all my mafia and Eamon-related problems out of existence.

I still have what feels like a thousand other problems, but that’s a big fucking head start.

I’m walking before I can think about it too much. It only takes a few seconds to duck around to the other side of the bar, stand up on my tiptoes because Sav’s too tall for his own good, and wrap my arms around him.

He’s stiff as a fucking board. I imagine Patrick was not a ‘hugging’ kind of father. Mine wasn’t either, to be honest. You can’t hug thin air. And I’ve never been known for my laid-back, affectionate approach to friendships. Or for my friendships, really.

But he deserves it. I hold him until he softens up just enough to hug me back, patting me on the back awkwardly for a second before I finally let him go.

“Thanks, bro.” I step back, inclining my head one more time to show him I’m serious. “I owe you a lot.”

He huffs and looks away from me before responding. “You don’t owe me anything, Tobias. I owe a lot more than this. We’re square.”

There’s so much sadness in him when he says it, I can practically taste the emotion dripping off his words. I don’t pushit, though. I know what that kind of guilt feels like, and there’s not a lot anyone else can say to make it better.

“Okay,” Gunnar says yet again. “We’re gonna go upstairs and get ready for work. We’ll be back around open. You good, Sav?”

The man nods, turning away from us and picking up a rag to indicate the time for sharing and caring is now over.

When Gunnar turns to me, I feel utterly drained. It’s barely noon, and I already feel like I’ve lived a quarter of my lifespan just today.

I should have known the relief was too good to last. I move through the apartment in a daze, showering and finally changing into clothes that fit me correctly. Even if it immediately causes a pang of emptiness to not smell like Gunnar and feel the fabric of his clothes on my skin.

We rest and clean up a little, all of it in relative silence. I think we’re both processing. It’s almost time to go downstairs, and I know I should bite my tongue, but the silence is starting to eat at me.

I can’t stop thinking about the conversation we had at the hospital this morning, and I know if we don’t talk about it now, it’ll eat at me for the next ten hours.

“I’m not putting her in a home,” I say, fracturing our fragile peace.

Gunnar freezes, halfway through making some sandwiches. He seems to consider the words for a minute before puttingdown the knife and putting the lid back on the mayonnaise, abandoning lunch for now.

“I don’t think the doctor was talking about a home, like a nursing home. It’s a rehab facility, so she can receive medical care.”

“She’s not even seventy yet!” The anger that hits me is sudden and unexpected, but it immediately decides it wants to steer the course of the conversation. “I’m not farming her out. I can’t do that. We don’t do that.”

Gunnar stays very still, and it fucking irritates me how even and quiet his voice comes out. Even though I know he’s doing it to be considerate to me, because he doesn’t want to accidentally scare me, or something.

“It’s not farming her out, Tobias. She needs complex medical care. It doesn’t even have to be forever, but it definitely has to be for a while. The doctor said if the wound gets worse, they might have to amputate her foot. She can’t even walk right now, plus all the heart stuff that I didn’t even understand. I don’t think any one person would be capable of taking care of her, even if you were with her 24/7. She needs more care than you can give her.”

His gentle, soothing tone irritates me. The truth of his words irritates me. All my own inadequacies fucking stack up to irritate me.

I dig my heels in. I don’t know why. Crossing my arms over my chest, I look him square in the eye and say, “I’m not farming her out. Especially not here. What if the nurses are racist? What if they treat her like shit? She needs me.”

“Tobias, I’m not trying to tell you what to do. You can live in the trailer if you want. But I think you should listen to the doctors when it comes to this. I know it’s another money stress, but let me help you figure it out.”

“I can’t do it. We don’t do that.”

He stares at me for a minute, like I’m a fortress and he’s making his plan of logical attack to get to me. When he moves closer, I pull back, because I don’t want him to touch me right now, but all he does is take a seat on the couch. I don’t sit, because I need to pace, but he looks up at me expectantly while I move.

“We who? Explain to me what’s going on in your head right now to get you this worked up. I want to understand.”

I bite my lip for a minute, not looking at him and taking a few steps back and forth. Partially because I don’t really know how to articulate what’s upsetting me, and partially because I don’t want to tell him. It feels so fucking vulnerable, and he’s already seen me stripped raw in ways no one else ever will.

He keeps looking at me though, with that steady, patient gaze. I remind myself of what I told him the other night: I chose him. Ichoosehim. Dragging my busted ass to his doorstep that night was probably the best thing I ever did for myself, and if I don’t fuck it all up, I think I could actually have a ‘rest of my life’ just because he’s in it.

Because I love him. And I should love myself first, or whatever. But right now, loving him feels easier. More stable. Especially when he keeps sitting there like he could wait out a million fucking temper tantrums and never bat an eye about it.

“Look, I’m a terrible Filipino person. I’m not white, I just have my gross, neo-Nazi father’s genetic donation, but I’m also fucking awful at being not-white. I don’t have fucking culture. I can count on one hand the amount of Filipino people I’ve met who I’m not blood related to. I kind of speak Tagalog, but mostly not.”

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