21. Sarina
twenty-one
sarina
Just Breathe
I burst through the doors of the emergency room, my heartbeat pounding inside my chest and temples. Thank God I was able to make it here in one piece, given my vision was blurry the entire drive.
My baby.
My little boy.
And the fact that I wasn’t there for him when he needed me the most . . .
My throat closes up as I rush to the registration desk, choking out my request, “My son, Rome Weston. He was brought here for a bee sting?—”
“Follow me, Mrs. Weston,” a nurse says immediately, already moving toward two double doors. I don’t care to correct her on my last name. “He’s right down the hall in room four.”
I hurry after her, disregarding the fluorescent lights above or the stark walls lit up by them. And even though there is a buzz of energy in the hall with doctors and nurses, the odor of antiseptic makes my stomach turn.
Troy comes into my vision as we get closer to Rome’s room. He’s standing outside, pacing the hallway and clutching Rome’s hat. Even from several feet away, I can see that his shoulders are practically at his ears.
As if sensing my presence, his head snaps toward me and he rushes over. The anguish on his face matches the way my gut clenches. “Rina?—”
But I’m already sliding past him with a nod that I hope conveys I’ll talk to him later. Right now I just need to get to my boy. I walk through the door the nurse holds open for me, and my breathing halts momentarily when my eyes land on Rome.
My sweet little boy is lying on a bed with an oxygen mask over his face, monitors beeping beside him. His skin looks pale, but his chest seems to be rising and falling normally. A doctor stands near him, making notes on his tablet.
“Mom?” Rome whispers behind his mask.
I run over to him, clutching his hand in mine. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
The doctor turns a warm smile my way. “Mrs. Weston?”
“Ms. Arora, actually.” My eyes flick from her to my son as my tears pool in my lids. “I’m Rome’s mother.”
She nods. “I’m Dr. Cho. Your son had a severe anaphylactic reaction to a bee sting but is responding really well to treatment. We administered epinephrine to him as soon as he arrived here with Mr. Winters.”
My chin wobbles. “He’s never had an allergic reaction to anything before. We had . . . I mean, I had no idea.”
Dr. Cho’s eyes soften. “It’s not something most people know about until they go through it. After all, it’s not like we preemptively get tested for bee venom allergies unless we’re already allergic to other things. Going forward, though, Rome will need to carry an EPI pen with him, especially when he’s outdoors.”
I nod rapidly, my pulse spiking at the thought of needles. I’ve always hated them. But right now, my baby needs me to be strong for him, so I shove down my fears and focus on what’s most important.
“I hope you thank Mr. Winters for his quick thinking,” Dr. Cho continues. “And for getting Rome here as fast as he did. I believe he saved his life.”
Even with a hand over my mouth, I try—and fail—to keep a sob from bubbling out of me. My watery eyes examine my son. “I am so sorry I wasn’t there for you, baby.”
“Don’t cry, Mom,” Rome urges slowly, still exhausted from the entire ordeal. His hand tightens on mine. “I’m feeling better now. Coach Troy told me he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. Is he still here?”
I look at the doctor for permission. “Can I ask him to come inside?”
Dr. Cho nods. “Actually, I’d like to get an accurate account of what happened, so Mr. Winters is welcome inside.”
I step toward the door, opening it and immediately finding Troy’s worried gaze on me. He pushes off the wall he was leaning on, hesitantly stepping toward me. I give him a small smile, my emotions completely haywire. As much as I want to burst out and thank him profusely for saving my son’s life, I’m too choked up to speak.
Troy seems to understand whatever is written on my face, and as soon as he takes a step forward, I wrap my arms around his torso, shoving my face into his warm chest.
His hands take a moment to come around me but when they do, I feel his nose on the top of my head, inhaling as if he hadn’t taken a breath all this time.
“He’s okay?” His voice is gruff like it’s working its way around jagged stones.
I nod, feeling my tears dampen his shirt. “Thank you.”
The doctor clears her throat, and I realize she’s been waiting for us. I quickly step aside to let Troy into the room and watch as his concerned eyes immediately find Rome.
“Coach Troy!” The upward tilt of Rome’s mouth is visible behind his mask. “Mom, you should have seen how fast Coach Troy drove us here! Like he was in The Fast and the Furious !”
“Uh . . .” Troy steps toward Rome’s bed sheepishly, flicking a glance at me. His voice is still rough but some of the tension in his shoulders dissipates with Rome’s words. “Not sure your mom will appreciate those details, buddy. Plus, I think it felt faster than it really was because you were so out of it.”
The two of them share a meaningful grin before Dr. Cho interrupts, asking Troy to recount the event.
For the next few minutes, I try to hold it together as Troy recaps what happened—how Rome started wheezing, how hives spread over his body, and how his lips turned blue while Troy raced him to the ER.
The fear in Troy’s expression sends fresh tears to my eyes, and I wipe them roughly with the heel of my palm. I can’t believe how close my little boy came to . . . God, I can’t even say it. I don’t even want to think it .
I release a slow breath, forcing myself to stay steady for Rome’s sake. Troy’s voice fades as he wraps up with the doctor, and when he finally finds my eyes, his gaze lingers. He gives me a hesitant but relieved smile—the kind that speaks to the gravity of what could have happened and the gratitude for what didn’t.
* * *
“Go to hell, Jamie!” I jab the red button on my phone to hang up on him before barely stopping myself from throwing it across the room like it’s personally responsible for my fury. “Fucking asshole.”
Tears stream down my face, the effects of his words still clawing at my chest as I heave out another sob. I’m just gulping down a few breaths to calm myself when there’s a knock on my door.
I open it without looking through the peephole, thinking it’s Nisha or Piper here to check on Rome again, but come face to face with Troy.
Even with the worry pinching his brows, the man is devastating to look at—those intense golden eyes sparkling under his plain white cap, his beard perfectly manicured against his strong jaw, and that slight curl of his hair around the nape of his neck. His massive shoulders and chest press against his black hoodie without a fighting chance of hiding his physique. The subtle scent of his cologne—that cedarwood and honey I can’t stop thinking about—envelopes me like a physical force.
He’s holding a gift bag in one hand. I only notice it after I practically pry my eyes away from the rest of him.
“Rina?” His brows furrow, taking me in. “What’s wrong? Is Rome okay? I just wanted to check on him again. I hope it’s okay that I randomly?—”
I don’t even let him finish, throwing my arms around his neck and hugging him with everything I have. I tuck my face into the side of his neck as my emotions bubble to the top and fresh tears prick the corners of my eyes. Emotions and tears I’d hidden even from my best friend and sister, willing myself to stay strong.
And yet, they seem to be right at the surface with him.
Is it because he went through the ordeal with me? Because he lived it, even more so than I did? Or is it because he’s here when he doesn’t have to be? When he’s already done more than anyone could expect of him by practically risking his life to save my child?
Or is it because, for the first time, I’m realizing that whatever this is between us transcends the neat little box of friendship I’d placed us in? It’s something raw and real, pulsing invisibly, like lightning before a storm breaks. A connection that hums with boundless energy, no matter how I try to contain it. No matter how I try to ignore it.
It’s like nothing else I’ve ever felt in my life.
His strong arms wrap around me instantly, the gift bag rustling as it drops to the ground beside us. One of his hands threads through my hair while the other draws me closer to him and for a moment, I just press my cheek to his and breathe.
Just breathe.
As if my lungs were waiting for their oxygen to finally show up.
As if every wall I’ve built, every rule I’ve made, and every reason I convinced myself to stay away from him was just in preparation for this moment—my final test. A test I’m willingly going to fail because the second he showed up at my door tonight to check on my little boy—when his own father couldn’t be bothered—all my carefully constructed restraints and reservations crumbled to dust.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his soft lips at my temple. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
The endearment sends a whoosh of butterflies soaring through my stomach. I pull back slightly, wiping the tears from under my eyes. “Nothing. Rome’s fine. He’s sleeping. I just . . . got off the phone with Jamie.”
Troy’s expression darkens, his jaw tightening in understanding. “Come on.” Picking up the gift bag, he guides me to my couch as if he’s been here a million times, closing the door behind him. “Tell me what happened. What did he say?”
I sink into the cushion near him, suddenly exhausted. Troy wraps an arm around me, pulling me to his side. I’ve sat like this with him before—close and in his space—but it feels different right now. More intimate than any time before.
Troy’s fingers play with my hair as I speak. “He’s not coming to see Rome, even after I told him what happened today. First, he went on about how Rome shouldn’t be playing baseball, anyway. Then, he said he’s leaving for Florida tomorrow to play in some pre-Thanksgiving tournament.”
My voice cracks as his words sit bitter on my tongue. “He said that Rome needs to ‘toughen up’. That I baby him too much and—get this—that it’s ‘par for the course’ when you play outdoor sports.” I let out a harsh laugh because, yeah, he actually used a golf pun to diminish what our son went through today. “As if that little boy didn’t just have a traumatic, life-threatening experience. My ex-husband basically told me to tell our son to ‘rub some dirt on it!’” My vision blurs as fresh anger spikes. “The jackass.”
Troy stiffens, his flared nostrils the only tell that he’s holding back his own angry words. Hearing me sniffle, he reaches for the box of tissues on my coffee table, handing me one.
“Thanks,” I mumble, dabbing at my eyes.
And that’s when I notice it—no makeup on the tissue.
My heart stutters as I blink down at the tissue.
I’d washed my face after tucking Rome into bed, not expecting a visitor this late. And even if someone did stop by, it would be either my sister or Piper—the few people, besides my dad, who knew what I hid underneath my concealer.
I quickly stand, needing space from Troy, praying that maybe, just maybe , he hadn’t noticed. “Sorry, I need to do some?—-”
“Rina.” Troy’s hand gently clasps mine, his voice as warm and tender as his hug. “I saw it earlier today. At the hospital.” When my head snaps in his direction, he continues softly, “Please don’t hide from me. If anything, I find you even more beautiful than I already?—”
“No.” I shake my head vehemently. “Don’t say stuff like that, Troy. I don’t need your pity.”
“Pity?” Troy rises to his feet, his expression almost angry. “You think telling you that you’re beautiful exactly the way you are is because I pity you?”
I try to pull my hand from his grasp but he tightens his hold. “I don’t know how or what you feel. It doesn’t matter?—”
“You don’t know how I feel ?” He chuckles mirthlessly. “Rina, if I haven’t shown you with every word, action, and look, then I haven’t just missed the boat; I’ve lost the whole damn map. Hell, I might as well be stranded at sea, if you can’t look at me and see what I want.”
He pinches my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting my face up to meet his eyes. And while my instincts scream for me to hide, to run from his embrace, to protect the heart he seems so intent on plucking from my chest, I force myself to hold his searching gaze.
His eyes dip to my lips and my resolve wavers.
They sear down possessively to the tops of my breasts peeking from the deep-V of my pajama shirt, and my breath catches.
When his hazel eyes meet mine again, the warm depths smolder with something that makes my knees weak. I couldn’t look away, no matter how hard I tried.
I swallow, my breaths coming out as quick, shallow pants. “And just for the record”—I clear my throat, aiming for casual but landing somewhere between winded and desperate—“you know, so there’s no confusion or anything—what exactly is it that you want?”
His thumb brushes along my jaw and he leans down so his breath skims across my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine. “You. Perfectly imperfect you. Flaws, walls, spicy condiments, strange slippers and all, baby. I want every sassy eye roll and every beautiful smile. I’ll wait as long as you want me to—be it a day, a decade, or a century. But don’t tell me you don’t know how I feel, Rina. Don’t tell me you don’t feel this between?—”
I don’t let him finish.
Rising onto my toes, I do the one thing that will silence his admission and my fears alike.
I kiss him.