Page 37 of The Man I Love

The entire subway ride back to the airport, he’d felt numb, as though he was incapable of ever feeling again. As though his heart was so broken it had forgotten how to beat. He hadn’t ever felt this low, even in his darkest moments when he’d lost his football career—it scared him.

He’d sat in complete silence in the terminal, trying to keep his mind from playing the scene repeatedly, over and over, as thousands of people rushed to their flights. He found himself at a bar, obsessively searching through his father’s website from his cellphone. A website dedicated to his brother’s fight with leukemia.

When he finally boarded his plane, he knew his brother’s name, and that he resided in a hospital less than an hour away from Tristan’s home in L.A. Uncanny, considering his dad had flown three thousand miles to talk to him.

His head pounded as he sat in the parking lot now, searching his glove box, looking for pain relief. He would have sworn he had a hangover, but all he’d managed was two shots of tequila the entire six-hour flight back to Los Angeles. Not nearly enough to handle the dozens of photos he’d found of his father’s new family. There was only one that he couldn’t shake. It was of a little boy standing on a hospital bed with a red plastic pirate sword in his hand. A patch covered one eye, and he waved it in the air as though he were in a fight. He had no hair, and there were deep hollows beneath his eyes that showed just how sick he was, yet his smile was infectious. Despite the tubes that were hooked up all around him, this little boy found joy in his own imagination.

The photo was posted two days earlier with a hashtag for City of Hope Cancer Hospital. Attached was an article written by his father, detailing his son’s diagnosis, treatments, and a plea for help—urging anyone and everyone to be tested as a donor—because time was running out.

Tristan squeezed the steering wheel as the resemblance between him and his brother gave him chills. If he didn’t know better, he’d think he was looking at a photo of himself at that age. He wasn’t the most forgiving man, but he knew this boy wasinnocent. He deserved a chance to live, and if Tristan had the power to do so, he would give it to him.

Securing the emergency break, he opened the cab door and headed into the hospital. He didn’t care that he still wore his tuxedo, or that everyone stared at him when he walked inside.

“How may I help you?” the woman asked from behind a glass window at her desk.

“I’m here to see Liam Montgomery,” Tristan said, holding up the stuffed elephant he’d purchased at a gas station mini mart on the ride over here.

“ID please.”

He pulled out his wallet and handed it to the woman.

She smiled sweetly, studying his driver’s license for too long. “I should have known.” She chuckled. “You look exactly like him.”

He wasn’t sure if by “him” she was referring to his father, or his brother. He knew both were true. “Yes,” he nodded.

“The genes must run deep in the Montgomery veins.” She grinned.

He nodded again, but his chest ached.

The woman entered his information into the computerandthen handed him back his ID.

“He’s a real heartbreaker, that Liam. All of us ladies look forward to seeing him on his walks—” but she paused, her face fell, and in that moment Tristan knew she hadn’t seen Liam in a while.

She slid a guest pass under the glass and nodded toward the elevator. “He’s on the second floor. Room 203.”

Time stoppedas Tristan waited for the elevator doors to open on the second floor. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing here. He could find out what he needed to know, never having to lay eyes on his brother, but his heart needed this.

Needed to see his brother face to face.

Needed to make sure he was okay.

As he walked down the hallway, his own childhood flashed before his eyes. Football games, practices, all the times he’d tackled his father to the ground in play. With all the hours they’d spent together as father and son, as coach and player…he’d never tried to please anyone more in his entire life.

When he finally made it to his brother’s room, it was open, but he hesitated outside the door. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find in room 203, but what he saw caused his body to stiffen. His father’s wife was sitting by his brother’s bedside, an intense expression of worry on her face even though his brother appeared peacefully asleep. She wore sweatpants and a loose T-shirt, one leg tucked under her body as she sat on the gaudy pink and blue hospital chair. She couldn’t have been more than mid-thirties—not much older than Tristan himself, yet the lines etched into her forehead were so deep, it was as though unwavering doubt had carved them there indefinitely.

She was pretty despite it all, which didn’t surprise Tristan knowing his father’s tastes. She had short blond hair, pale eyes, and a kind face—but it was the way she ran her hand over and over his brother’s tiny face that forced him in the opposite direction. It was the way his own mother had comforted him as a child when he was sad or sick.

Bile rose in the back of his throat, and he walked past the door. He needed air. Needed space. Needed to get his mind checked because he’d obviously lost a piece of it coming there.

“Wait!” a woman called from behind him. “Wait!”

Without turning around, he paused, and every hair on his body stood on end.

“Tristan.” The sound of steps on hard tile filled his brain. “Is that you?”

He wasn’t sure what surprised him most, that she knew his name, or that she’d recognized him even without seeing his face.

He turned to face her, finding her standing with her arms folded across her chest. She inhaled. “Your dad isn’t here.” She let out a breath, waving her hand back toward Liam’s hospital room. “He’s on a business trip. He’ll be back this evening. I can call him if you’d like.”

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