Chapter 26 What We Pretend To Be
What We Pretend To Be
ADRIAN
By the time evening settled in, Eli was steady enough to leave the bed for a while. I helped him to the couch. We went slowly, carefully, afraid he might break if I moved too fast. He leaned heavier on me than he meant to, and I pretended not to notice.
We ended up side by side, the glow from the TV painting us in pale light. He chose a movie we’d seen before, something familiar enough that we didn’t have to think.
We didn’t talk. Didn’t touch.
I sat there with my hands clasped in my lap, elbows on my thighs, waiting for cues that never came. Every few minutes, I’d catch myself glancing over.
“You want another pillow?”
“No.”
“Need your drink refilled?”
“I’m fine.”
“Too cold?”
“No, Adrian.”
He said my name as if it was both a plea and a warning. I nodded, pretending to watch the movie, then a moment later asked if he wanted socks.
Nervous energy rolled through me in waves. I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t stop hovering. He wasn’t my patient, but I was treating him like one by monitoring his color, his breathing, the set of his jaw when pain crept in. Every instinct in me screamed to fix what I couldn’t fix.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, head tilted slightly toward me, mouth parted just enough that I could see the steady rhythm of his breath.
I let him sleep through the end of the movie. The credits rolled, and the room dimmed to that flickering black-and-blue screen that asks if you’re still watching. I wasn’t.
When I finally touched his shoulder, he stirred, disoriented. “Hey,” I murmured. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
He blinked at me, too tired to protest. I helped him stand, keeping him close as we made our way down the hall. Eli was warm against me, heavy in that pliant, half-asleep way that made me ache with a tenderness I didn’t know what to do with.
Once he was under the covers, I adjusted the blanket, checked the meds on the nightstand, and smoothed a wrinkle that didn’t matter.
His lashes fluttered, and for a second I thought he might say something. But he just turned his face toward the pillow, breath evening out.
I racked my brain trying to figure out a way to reach him. It used to be so easy, so natural. Now I needed an instruction manual and a miracle.
“Goodnight,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure who I was saying it to, him, or the version of us that still existed somewhere in my head.
Eli stirred when I brought coffee into the room, blinking at me as though he wasn’t sure if I was real or something his mind had conjured out of habit. His hair was sticking up in the back, the blanket half-twisted around his waist. He looked small in our bed, smaller than I’d ever seen him.
“Morning,” I said softly, setting the mug down within reach. “Pain level?”
He gave a vague shrug, voice rough. “Manageable.”
“Good.”
He watched me as I moved around the room, adjusting the blinds, checking the time on my phone, sorting his medication bottles even though I’d done it twice already. Motion was easier than stillness. Doing was easier than feeling.
The clock on the dresser ticked loud enough to count the seconds between us.
When I finally ran out of excuses to move, I sat on the edge of the bed.
I felt his hand twitch, as if he wanted to reach for me, but stopped himself halfway there.
The space between us stretched taut, a thread pulled thin enough to hum.
We were here—together, alive, breathing—but every heartbeat carried the echo of something we used to be. Something I kept trying to resuscitate.
Today was his first PT session. I should’ve been encouraging, upbeat—something other than this trembling mix of hope and shame. Instead, all I could think about was the way his body would strain, how pain would shadow every small victory. I wasn’t sure which of us I was trying to prepare.
He drew a ragged breath. “Adrian,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to keep doing all this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
Because it’s the only way I know how to love you.
Because if I stop, I’ll have to feel how close I came to losing you.
Because fixing you is the only thing keeping me from falling apart myself.
But all I said was, “Because I want to.”
He looked away, eyes shining, lips pressed tightly, holding something back.
I reached for his hand, but he turned his head toward the window. Morning light pooled around him, softening his face, drawn tight from pain, and I saw the twitch in his jaw, the quiet defiance of someone who didn’t want to be anyone’s burden.
“PT’s at ten,” I said after a while, my voice too even. “I’ll drive you.”
He gave a small nod, and that was the end of it.
But as I watched him sip his coffee, it hit me. He wasn’t the only one learning how to stand again.
The PT session went worse than I’d hoped.
Eli tried—God, he tried—but every movement looked like punishment.
His jaw clenched, breath coming in tight, uneven bursts.
Sweat rolled down the side of his face, catching in the stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave.
I wanted to reach for him, to steady his elbow or take some of the weight off his leg, but every time I took a step forward, the therapist gave me that polite little smile that said, don’t interfere.
So I stood back, useless, watching the man I loved fight through pain that felt as much my fault as his injury.
The therapist, Cindy, was bright, cheerful, and endlessly optimistic. She chattered through it all.
“You’re doing great, Eli. And aren’t you lucky to have a doctor for a husband? I mean, the two of you are just the cutest. He’s so devoted, it’s inspiring.”
Eli didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up. His knuckles whitened on the parallel bars, eyes locked on the floor.
By the time we left, he was pale and shaking, every muscle trembling. I helped him into the car and buckled him in when his fingers wouldn’t cooperate. He didn’t speak the entire drive, just stared out the window, jaw ticking.
I tried to fill the void, to make it normal again. “Do you want to stop for a smoothie? The place you like—”
He cut me off, voice sharp and breaking. “We can’t keep pretending this is the same thing, Adrian.”
The words hit like a slap. “What do you mean?”
“This,” he said, gesturing between us. “Us. You playing doctor. Me pretending not to hate needing your help.” His voice rose. “You think you can just take a leave of absence and suddenly everything’s fine? That it fixes what you did?”
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. “I’m trying to help you, Eli.”
“I don’t need a caretaker—I need my husband!”
The car filled with the sound of our jagged breaths. For a second, I thought about driving past the smoothie shop, going straight home, and letting the fight die there. But something inside me snapped—the exhaustion, the guilt, the desperate need to make him see.
I turned into the drive-thru, rolling down the window.
“This is our new normal,” I said, my voice shaking but firm.
“Get used to it. Because I’m not going back to work anytime soon, and I’m going to hover and irritate the hell out of you until you’re better.
And then we’re going to fix what I broke.
And goddammit, we’re going to live happily ever after, just like we dreamed way back when. ”
“Adrian—”
“I love you,” I said fiercely. “I’ve never stopped, and I never will. You’re mine, Eli, and we promised to do this life together, and I’m holding both of us to that promise.”
There was a pause—a heartbeat, a breath—then the intercom crackled to life.
“Welcome to Smooth Operator,” a chipper voice sang. “Can I interest you in a Tropical Passion Explosion today?”
Eli blinked, caught somewhere between fury and disbelief.
I exhaled, dragging a hand over my face. “You know what,” I muttered, “yeah. Two. Large.”
Eli made a strangled noise beside me, somewhere between a scoff and a sob, and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook, not from pain this time but from something rawer, lighter.
I froze, unsure if he was crying or laughing. But then, a quiet, broken laugh bubbled out from behind his fingers.
“Oh my God,” he said, voice muffled. “A Tropical Passion Explosion? Really, Adrian?”
The corners of my mouth twitched. “What? It felt… thematically appropriate.”
He dropped his hands and looked at me, eyes wet, cheeks blotched, and mouth caught between a smile and a grimace. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Yeah,” I said, my throat thick. “Your idiot.”
He let out another laugh that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. “God, we’re a mess.”
“Yeah,” I said softly. “A beautiful mess.”
The drive-thru window opened, and the teenager inside handed me two neon-colored cups that looked like tropical traffic cones. I passed one to Eli, our fingers brushing. It was brief, thrilling, and left me craving more.
He took it with a shaky hand, still smiling faintly. “You’re gonna give me diabetes before I can even walk right again.”
“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Doctor’s orders.”
He rolled his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. Outside, the world looked unbearably ordinary. Sunlight glinted off windshields, cars moving through the line, life just… happening.
Inside the car, everything was still fragile, stitched together with smoothies, sugar, sarcasm, and a stubborn kind of love that refused to die.
As we pulled away, Eli sipped his drink and muttered, “It’s too sweet.”
“Yeah,” I said quietly, glancing at him. “That’s kind of the point.”