Page 284 of The Fall
“Nice try.” But his smile softens his words, and when he stands, he holds out both hands to help me up.
Our home PT setup dominates the living room: resistance bands, balance board, a foam roller that is my nemesis. Blair’s already moving through his warm-up routine. He never lets me do this alone.
“Thirty seconds on the balance board,” he coaches. “You got this.”
My tremors start at sixteen seconds. Blair counts down the final moments, and when I step off, his “beautiful work” carries the same pride he used to use on the ice after a perfect play.
We move through the rest of my routine: stretches for my neck muscles and spine, cognitive exercises disguised as conversation, strength work that leaves me shaking. Blair talks about playoff scenarios and debates line combinations with me, filling the air with hockey to remind us who we’re fighting to become again.
When my exhaustion finally wins, I drop onto the couch and melt into the cushion. “Small victories.”
He sits beside me and rubs my thigh. “There’s no such thing as small victories anymore. Only victories.”
We’ve both recalibrated what matters.
Blair assesses me. “Was it too much?”
We both know I’ll lie. “It was perfect.” And it was. Every ache proves I’m healing.
I lay my head against his shoulder, and he lays his head atop mine.
The next day, Blair returns from therapy frayed, and he folds into my side on the couch, his control crumbling.
His therapy sessions are three times weekly, an hour each with Dr. Mercer. He comes home with exposed nervesand weeping wounds and clenched fists. These sessions are excavating pain that never properly healed: Cody’s death, pulling me lifeless from the sinking Escalade, the compounded trauma of love and loss braided too tight to separate, growing up gay in a hypermasculine world, his family turning their backs on him, learning how to not be alone. His therapist is teaching him to carry life and grief and love without drowning, but there are days when the water still rises too high.
“Bad one?” I ask as I hold him.
“Yeah,” he finally says.
My arm tightens around him.
We move outside and sit together on the lanai. The canal reflects the late afternoon light, and a boat motor purrs in the distance. It’s peaceful. Safe. The opposite of collapsing bridges and plunging into dark waters.
We take turns being each other’s solid ground.
My father arrives at four-thirty, right on the dot. He’s rented a place ten minutes away, close enough to visit every day but far enough to give us privacy.
The easy warmth between him and Blair still catches me off guard, like they’ve been family for years instead of weeks.
“Smells amazing,” I call from my perch at the kitchen island, watching them work in tandem. Dad’s teaching Blair to cook Singapore chili crab today.
“Your Blair has good hands,” Dad says, guiding Blair through the recipe.
“I know.”
Blair shoots me a look that promises retribution later, but he’s smiling. He’s surprisingly old-fashioned about some things.He wants to treat me like a prince in front of my father, and takes on the role of a gentleman whenever Dad is here. I think he’d sleep on the couch if he thought there was a chance he could pretend that we haven’t already ravished each other completely, but my father is a realistic man. Still, Blair likes to believe he’s a white knight.
He is.
I rest my chin on folded arms atop the island counter as the kitchen fills with steam and garlic and the sharp bite of chilies hitting oil. They move around each other easily, Dad explaining while Blair absorbs every detail. He is meticulous with the crab shells and red chili paste, listening intently while Dad explains how much ginger to add.
Dinner on the lanai becomes our tradition. We eat while boats drift past, conversation flowing between hockey and recovery, Singapore memories and future plans. Dad asks about my PT progress, and Blair jumps in with pride. “He’s ahead of schedule.”
Dad reaches over to squeeze my shoulder. “Of course he is.”
This is my life now, messy and filled with small victories and daily challenges, and rich with a love I never knew was possible.
Thursday is a bad day.
