The Man I Love (The Road Trip #2)

18. Chapter Eighteen

18

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

February

Six Months Earlier

Los Angeles

“Hi, this is Sam. Leave me a message.”

Tristan stared into nothingness as the smell of disinfectant permeated his nostrils. He’d planned to hang up if she didn’t answer, but the second he heard her voice, his body stiffened. “Hey, Sam—it’s me.” The words came out on autopilot, and he cringed, realizing the first words to Samantha in three weeks would be heard through a message.

Hang up.

Hang up.

Hang up, you bastard!

But he didn’t hang up, he went silent. Silent for too long. “I’m just calling”—his eyes closed with remorse—“to say I’m sorry.”

He hated the way he’d left things. Hated that it had taken him so long to pick up the phone. He still didn’t fully understand what had happened that night, but he knew he should have stayed and talked it out. He should have been stronger.

Waiting three damned weeks to call her was a mistake—but each passing day had made it harder. Every day added weight to the phone, especially when his life was already crumbling under the weight of so many failures.

And now, finally, he was here.

He dropped his head back on the headrest and stared at the ceiling, wondering how he’d fucked things up this badly.

He took a breath, then another, and looked around the waiting room. It was filled with people. Some looked bored, others distressed.

“Call me back when you get this,” he finally said, then pulled the phone from his ear, and let it fall heavily onto his lap.

What. The fuck. Was that?

Blood was pounding at his temples, making his head throb with pain. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to ease it, to get a grip on his emotions, but it felt impossible. In a few moments, they would take him back and prepare him for surgery, and the fact that he still hadn't talked to Samantha tied his stomach in knots.

Only Penny knew he was there today. In the past few weeks, he’d completely isolated himself. Shutting himself in, and everyone else out. By choice, he’d faced this all alone. The testing, the meetings, all the loopholes he’d needed to get through to become a donor, because he couldn’t bear to let anyone see him fail at one. More. Thing.

In a way, it saved his life. It gave him something to wake up for each morning, a reason to keep putting one foot in front of the other each day.

Because he’d single-handedly ruined everything else. His relationship, his business, his whole fucked up life would never be the same––but the possibility of being a match to Liam had given him a reason to keep breathing.

It gave him hope.

It gave him purpose.

Sitting here now, the weight of the world was on his shoulders. What if it didn’t work out? What if he was too late?

His head fell forward as he gripped his forehead, wishing for a hand to hold, for someone to tell him things would be okay.

Tristan picked up the phone again and dialed a number.

“Hello?” Renee answered on the first ring, but there were voices in the background, which became muffled when she placed her hand over the receiver.

“Hey, is this a bad time?” he asked quietly.

There was a long pause, then a door opening and closing in the background “No.” She spoke up, “What’s up? Everything okay?”

He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. She sounded worried, anxious, and he didn’t really blame her.

He cleared his throat, then sat a little straighter, not knowing where to start. “I’m a match, Ren,” he blurted out.

She was quiet for a moment, but he could hear her breathing grow shallow. “When did you find out?”

“A few days ago.”

“And you’re just telling me now?” She sounded hurtandconfused. “Where are you?”

He glanced around the waiting room, eyes locking on the portrait across from him. It was of a father and son, though he imagined it to be brothers. He and Liam holding hands and walking toward a sunset. “I’ll be prepped for surgery in a few minutes,” he stated. “I thought I should tell someone.”

She pulled in a ragged breath. “I could have been there with you. You didn’t have to face this alone.”

“You have your own life, Ren,” he stated.

“Which includes my brother.”

He looked to the floor, unsure why he’d kept this a secret for so long. “I’m scared.”

“Why?”

“What if I’m too late?”

“You can’t think like that,” she said softly. “You can’t control what happens next.”

He swallowed hard, holding back the tears that welled in his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Have you talked to her?”

A moment passed, then another. “Of course I have, Tris.”

This was the first time in two and a half years that he’d talked to her about Samantha. It had been an unspoken agreement between them up until now. He didn’t get involved in her relationship, and she didn’t get involved in his.

He clenched his jaw, feeling ashamed that he’d come to this point, but he needed to know. “How is she?”

“Tris…”

“Tell me.” He needed the truth, no matter how difficult it was to hear.

“She’s about as good as you,” she bit out. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Of course not.” He shook his head.

“Then what?”

“I don’t know…” he whispered.

She was quiet for a long time. “What do you want, Tristan?”

He paused, as though the question was absurd. “I want her.”

“ Do you ? Because you’re not doing a very good job of showing it.”

An overwhelming surge of regret made him stand up, and he stepped forward.

He wanted to ask what exactly she’d meant by that. He wanted to know every word Samantha had said in the past three weeks since he’d left that apartment. “I’ll fix this,” he promised. “As soon as I can. As soon as I’m able.”

Renee let out a breath. “I hope so.”

A nurse appeared in the doorway. “Tristan Montgomery?”

He held up one finger to signal he was there. “I gotta go,” he said to Renee. “The nurse is here.” Everything felt rushed. The moment he thought would never arrive finally fell into his lap.

“Text me when you’re out,” Renee demanded.

He picked up his walletand the forms he’d been given upon arrival. “Okay.”

“I love you, Tris,” she said firmly.

“I love you too,” he said, then clicked off the phone and walked toward the nurse.

“Tristan Montgomery?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me.”

“Are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he drawled, trying to be charming enough that she wouldn’t notice his hands shaking.

She smiled softly and looked down at her chart. “Will anyone be accompanying you this morning?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

Her eyes saddened andshe touched his shoulder gently. “You’ll be fine. We’ll take good care of you.”

He nodded once, flashed her his best Montgomery smile, then followed her down the hall where he was prepped for surgery.

It took a moment for Tristan to realize where he was. A dull ache radiated in his pelvis, and his brain pounded like a bass-drum on his skull. He shifted to the side, instinctively rubbing the pain at his hip—but someone grabbed hold of his hand and moved it away.

“No,” a woman cooed. “That’s your incision. You just had surgery.”

His eyes fluttered open, finding the lights bright and painful above his head. “Dr. Tuso said the surgery was successful,” she assured him. “You’ll be bruised and sore for the next few weeks, but you need to leave the incision site alone, okay?” She was speaking to him loud and slow, as though he was an eighty-year-old man in need of a hearing aid.

He stared at the pink carafe on the bedside table. His mouthwas so dry that it felt like cotton was lodged in his throat. Then, in his peripheral vision, he realized someone else was in the room. He turned toward the bedside chair, and the anesthesia instantly lifted.

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. “You are my 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 my son .”

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 with you , 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.

Tears blurred his vision and for the first time in his adult life, he didn’t try to hide them from his father––because somewhere in a room not too far away Liam was fighting for his life. That was all that mattered. Liam’s system wasweak, recovering from a surgery so like the one that had flattened Tristan on his back. “Go,” he repeated.

His father nodded, his eyes red rimmed and filled with pain. “Okay.”

Tristan realized at that moment that his dad had walked through fire to get to this point. The evidence was etched into his face—like permanent scars that told his story. Yet his journey wasn’t over, and the embers still blazed like burning coal—because the barest breeze would set them blazing again.

His father flexed his jaw, then turned to leave the room but hesitated at the door. “One more thing.” His father’s voice was rough, and he paused for a long time before he spoke again. “She didn’t plan it,” he said.“I gave her no choice. If you’re going to be angry with anyone, be angry with me.”