Chapter 29 Finding Solid Ground
Finding Solid Ground
ELI
The next morning, I felt good. Or as close to good as I’d come in weeks.
The kind of morning where I convinced myself I could do more than I should—stand a little taller, walk a little farther, pretend I wasn’t afraid.
The talk last night about the accident, about everything, had dissolved much of the weight in my chest, but not enough to take a full, deep breath.
I woke up sore, a little raw, but determined. Determined to do something, to prove that I wasn’t as breakable as Adrian seemed to think.
So when we started the walking drills in therapy, I pushed. Harder than I should’ve.
The floor came up fast. Not a crash, not even much of a stumble—just enough to send a bolt of pain up my leg and a hot flush of humiliation down my neck.
“Easy,” my therapist said gently, steadying me by the elbow. “You okay?”
I nodded, though the answer was debatable. My pride hurt worse than my body.
The gym echoed with bright encouragements from the other side of the room. Someone else’s therapist counted reps, another patient clapped for a win that wasn’t mine. I focused on breathing, on the twitch in my thigh easing as I found my footing again.
Usually, by now, I’d hear Adrian’s sharp inhale, the scrape of his chair, or the command for someone to help him. But not today.
When I looked over, he was in a seat by the wall, posture tense, one leg bouncing like a live wire. He held a magazine halfway to his face, but I saw his death grip on the edges, his knuckles white and rigid. The man hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes.
And I loved him for it.
I took another breath, nodded at the therapist, and pushed through the next set. Every step burned, but it felt like a minor victory. Not just mine, but his too.
When I finally risked another glance, Adrian was peering over the top of his magazine. Our eyes met for half a second. His expression flickered with pride, worry, and restraint, all tangled up.
And before I could stop myself, I smiled. Just a little.
For once, he’d let me fall. And somehow, that small act of his not interfering hit harder than the fall itself. He was killing himself to give me the trust and independence I needed. That felt more like love than anything else he’d done.
The ride home wasn’t as tense as usual.
“The therapist said you did well today.”
I huffed out a small laugh. “Pretty sure I face-planted.”
“Yeah,” he said, and I heard the smile in it. “But you got back up.”
I turned to look at him, taking in his profile—tired eyes, day-old stubble, that furrow between his brows that never quite left. He looked older than I remembered. Softer somehow.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the throb in my leg had settled into something dull and bearable. Inside, he helped me onto the couch and fetched water, pain meds, and a blanket—quiet efficiency instead of nervous fussing. Then he sat beside me.
“You want to put something on?”
I nodded. He picked a movie, some mindless comedy we used to quote to each other, and we watched without speaking. Halfway through, my head found his shoulder. We stayed that way until the credits rolled.
He turned to me then, quiet. “I didn’t help you up today.”
“I noticed.”
His throat bobbed. “It killed me not to.”
“I know.”
He let out a shaky breath that sounded like a release. “But I think… I think you needed to know you could.”
I didn’t say anything because the truth sat too heavy in my chest. He was right. I did need to know. And I needed him to trust that I could. So I reached for his hand. It was a simple thing, a brush of fingers, finding purchase. His breath caught, like he wasn’t expecting it.
“Thanks,” I murmured.
“For what?”
“For letting me fall.”
He smiled, small but real. “Anytime.”
I leaned back against him. For once, I wasn’t thinking about the accident, or the pain, or the thousand ways we’d broken apart. Just the fact that we were here. Still trying. Still choosing each other, one small act at a time.
Later that night, after the house had gone still, Adrian found me in bed propped against the pillows, scrolling absently on my phone. The soft glow from the lamp turned everything warm and honeyed.
He kicked off his shoes and slid in beside me, careful not to jostle my leg. “I talked to my mom tonight.”
I hummed without looking up.
“She says hi, and that she loves you.”
I glanced over, one corner of my mouth lifting. “She’s always been too good to me.”
“She also said to tell you to rest and take it easy,” he added, trying for lightness.
I snorted softly. “That sounds like her.” I hesitated. “My mom and dad are coming for dinner tomorrow.”
“That’s good.” He sounded as if he meant it. “You should see them. They’ve been worried.”
“I know.” My thumb traced the edge of the blanket, eyes down. “I just… want them to see I’m okay.”
I didn’t have to explain the rest; the way okay didn’t mean healed, just trying. Adrian knew.
We both turned back to our respective distractions—me with my phone, him with the novel he’d been pretending to read for days. This time, the silence was softer.
A few minutes later, I shifted. The slightest lean, a brush of warmth as my shoulder touched his.
Adrian looked over. I didn’t move away.
He mirrored the motion, closing the gap until our sides aligned. His hand found its way across the space between us, settling over my arm. He bent down and pressed a soft kiss to my shoulder. His lips were warm, the faint scent of soap still clinging to him.
I exhaled, a quiet sound of contentment, not pain.
It wasn’t an apology or a promise. Just presence. A truce made in breaths and inches.
I wanted to lean in fully, to crawl into his arms and lay my head on his chest, to ask for his fingers in my hair, but… pride refused to let me.
Despite my stubbornness, for the first time since the accident, it felt like we might actually find our way back. Not in one grand gesture, but in the small, steady returns that make up a life.
I must’ve drifted off somewhere between the sound of his breathing and the bugs humming outside the window because suddenly, we were somewhere else.
The air was humid. Salt-sticky. A summer day that melted time.
We were back at that beach north of Savannah, the one we’d found by accident on a road trip, where the dunes were high, and no one else bothered to walk that far down. I’d worn cutoff shorts, my skin kissed red from the sun, and the wind kept pushing my hair into my eyes.
“You’re staring,” I said, squinting at Adrian from under my hand.
“Just making sure you don’t dissolve,” he’d teased. “You’re pale as hell.”
I’d splashed him with saltwater for that, and he dragged me in after him. We tumbled into the surf, laughing, grabbing, and mouths colliding between waves.
We’d stumbled back to shore, soaked and breathless, collapsing onto the sand where the tide barely reached. His hands had found my shoulders, my chest, my jaw. I remembered the taste of salt on his lips, the way the horizon disappeared when he looked at me like that.
He’d whispered, “Don’t move,” and I hadn’t. Didn’t even breathe. I couldn’t tear my gaze from him, mesmerized by the sunlight turning the water on his skin into diamonds.
We’d made out until the sky turned violet, and when he finally rested his forehead against mine, he said something I hadn’t remembered until now.
“Promise me I’ll never have to wonder about our future. You and I, we’re solid. Forever. No crisis, no argument, nothing… Nothing will ever make me question where we stand.”
I’d said, “Promise.” Because how could he question my love and my loyalty? Adrian was everything. Everything that mattered. Nothing would change that.
And when I woke, I was still in his arms. His hair tickled my cheek, his breath warm against my throat. I snuggled closer, reveling in the feel of him.
Morning crept in slowly, casting pale stripes across the sheets. The world felt quieter than it had in months. I closed my eyes and listened to his heartbeat, steady and alive beneath my palm, and thought about all the times I’d taken that sound for granted.
We weren’t the same people who’d made those promises under a fading sky. But that didn’t make them less true. Maybe love wasn’t about keeping the world from falling apart; it was about finding your way back after it did.
The next evening, the house smelled like garlic bread and tomatoes.
Dinner had taken all afternoon—not because it was complicated, but because I wasn’t allowed to pretend I was fine anymore. We worked in tandem. I handled what I could from the stool at the counter, and when my leg started to scream, I stopped.
Adrian didn’t hover. He just… filled in the gaps. Chopping when I couldn’t stand. Moving the heavy pots without making it a thing. Sliding things within reach like it was normal, as if this was just how we cooked now.
Like we were a team again.
The sauce simmered low, the table was set, and by the time everything was ready, I was spent, but not wrecked. I even remained seated while he answered the door.
My mom came in first, followed by my dad carrying a bottle of wine.
“Hi, honey,” she said, and my whole face softened. I stepped forward carefully, letting her hug me tightly. When she pulled back, her eyes shone. “You look good.”
I gave a quiet laugh. “You mean alive.”
“Both,” she said, squeezing my hand.
We moved to the table, the easy rhythm of family settling in around us. At some point, my mom asked about therapy, and I faltered just a bit, wanting to skip over the hard parts.
“It’s going,” I said. “Fell yesterday, actually.”
“Oh, sweetheart—”
I waved her away. “It’s fine. I got up.”
Adrian glanced at me, and the pride showing on his face made something in my chest unclench.
My dad reached across the table and touched my hand. “We’re proud of you, son.”
My mom excused herself from the table and pulled a framed photo from her purse. She handed it to me with a wistful expression.