Page 45 of The Man I Love

His father sat casually with his legs crossed, the morning’s paper open in his lap.

Unable to speak, Tristan pushed himself backward on the bed.

“Slow,” the nurse corrected. “You’ve just had surgery,” she repeated, as though he hadn’t understood her the first time.

She poured a glass of water for him. “Here. Take small sips.”

He did as the nurse instructed, his eyes never leaving his father the whole time.

His mind whirled with questions, but there was only one he needed to ask. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

His father calmly folded up the paper and placed it on the nearby table. “I wanted to make sure you were okay?—”

“I’m fine.”

“I wanted to thank?—”

“I didn’t do it for you.” Taking deep breaths, Tristan looked down at his lap. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just—” But he stopped himself, unable to find the words to express what he was feeling.

The nurse must have realized the sensitivity of the conversation because she excused herself from the room

“The nurse told me you were alone. Since we have the same last name, it was easy to convince her to let me see you. Will someone be picking you up? Do you have someone to care for you when you get home?”

But all Tristan could hear was“Where is Samantha? Where is your sister?”

He turned toward his bedside table, retrieving the bag they’d given him to put his belongings in before surgery, and removed his wallet and cell phone. “You should be with your son,” he said under his breath, ignoring the questions.

His father paused, then stared at him for a long time. “Youaremy son.”

A lump formed in Tristan’s throat. It was the first time since before Renee’s wedding that he’d acknowledge him in any way.

“No matter how old you get, no matter how angry you are, you will always be myson.”

Tristan’s gut wrenched with emotion, but he didn’t look away. “You should be with Liam,” he clarified. “He needs you.” He reached up to adjust the pillow behind his head, and the unspoken words “I don’t” lingered in the air between them.

There was a long pause before his father answered. “Heather is with Liam. Who is withyou, Tristan?”

Tristan’s jaw flexed, and he turned on his cellphone, focusing on the notifications that came all at once. Penny would pick him up as soon as Tristan called. She’d help him pick up his prescriptions on the way home, and he’d sleep in her guest bedroom tonight. That’s as far as he’d planned. As far as he could think into the future.

“What happens now?” he asked his father, deliberately ignoring his questions again.

“You go home,” he said. “You heal.”

“And Liam?”

“He does the same.” His voice was low, matter-of-fact. “If the transfer is successful”—he stopped himself—“when the transfer is successful, the cells will multiply. In two—maybe four—weeks, we’ll know.”

Tristan closed his eyes, “Okay.”

“Are you okay, son?” his father asked again, but this time he stoodand placed a single hand on Tristan’s knee.

Tristan stared at it for a long time, remembering all the days his father had lectured him when he was young. Over a missed play in a game, a tone he’d used with his mother, or a phone call from school. He’d done it just like this. With one hand on Tristan’s knee. For some reason, the realization made him swallow.

“Go to him,” Tristan looked up to his father, his tone softer.

His dad hadn’t been perfect, but there was no doubt in Tristan’s mind that he loved his children. For the first time in a very long time, they both were on the same page. Wanted the exact same thing.

For Liam to live.

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