Chapter 29 Finding Solid Ground #2
“Remember that day? I was going through old photos and found this one. I just had to frame it.”
By God, it was from my dream last night.
Me and Adrian at the beach, the fuchsia sun setting behind our smiling faces.
He slung his arm around my shoulders, saltwater making his hair stick up at odd ends.
He was gorgeous, and we looked happy. That family vacation was right after Adrian finished his residency and had accepted a full-time position at the hospital.
The calm before the storm. Our last chance to connect before things turned hectic again.
My mom wiped at her eyes. “We should take another family trip. You never know when life—” She cut herself off, wincing.
The table quieted. Even the sound of forks scraping plates stopped.
Adrian reached for his water glass, fingers brushing the stem, his knuckles white. I saw the muscle in his jaw tick, the faintest tremor in his hand.
I wanted to tell her it was fine, that I didn’t mind the near-slip, but my throat closed around the words.
“I’d like that,” Adrian said instead, his voice calm, practiced. “The beach, maybe. Once Eli’s strong enough to show us all up again on the paddleboard.”
I looked at him then, really looked. His smile was easy, but I saw the exhaustion in it, the void behind his eyes.
He wasn’t the man I’d kissed on that beach, carefree and sunburned and laughing.
But he was still the man I loved. The one who held me when I couldn’t stand. Who stayed, even when it hurt to.
“I’ll hold you to that,” my mom said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin.
I swallowed hard, heart twisting. “Yeah. Me too.”
Adrian set his glass down, but the twitch remained until I reached for his hand, holding it firmly in mine. Then he steadied, his mouth twisting into a grateful smile.
The scent of garlic bread filled the lull.
Mom made a joke about my dad’s terrible sweater, and laughter picked up again, polite and brittle.
But beneath it all, the ghost of that beach day lingered—the sun, the water, the feeling of him against me, young and sure and certain that nothing could ever go wrong.
And sitting there, with my parents and my half-healed body and the man I still loved pretending to be fine, I realized something terrifying:
For years he’d been silently slipping away from me, becoming someone else, someone I hadn’t recognized. But he hadn’t changed. He’d just gotten lost.
And more than anything, I wanted to help him find his way back.
Things lightened after that. My mom talked about her garden, and Adrian complimented the rosemary garlic bread. The table felt like neutral ground—no pity, no worry—just clinking silverware and smiling faces.
It didn't last.
Dad cleared his throat between bites of pasta. “Have you been in touch with your office, son?”
“Yeah. I might start working from home soon. Just light stuff, research.”
He nodded, satisfied. Then his attention shifted. “And you, Adrian? Back at work yet?”
Adrian shook his head, his fork motionless. “Not yet. I’m on extended leave.”
Dad’s brows lifted. “Extended?”
“I wanted to be here,” Adrian said simply. “To help.”
There was a beat of silence before Dad answered, just long enough for the words to curdle. “You’re a doctor, Adrian. Don’t you think Eli needs to learn his own limits? You can’t be there every second.”
Something sharp flickered behind Adrian’s eyes, but his voice stayed even. “He almost died, sir. Forgive me if I’m not ready to test those limits just yet.”
Mom’s hand stilled on her glass. Dad exhaled through his nose. “I just don’t want you to lose yourself in guilt.”
That word—guilt—hit the table like a dropped knife.
My stomach twisted. I glanced at Adrian, but he was already looking at me. We both knew what my father didn’t: that guilt was the third person in this room, lying between us every night we tried to sleep.
Mom jumped in, too brightly. “Who wants pie?”
The conversation shifted, but it was too late. Something in me curled tight, as if I was back in the hospital bed with everyone whispering around me. I reached under the table and rested my hand on Adrian’s knee.
He startled faintly, then relaxed. Adrian didn’t look at me, but I felt the smallest press of his fingers over mine, grounding and sure.
By the time dessert was served, we were still quiet. But not apart.
My father’s disapproval hadn’t driven a wedge between us. It had welded something instead. We might not have the perfect answer or the perfect recovery, but sitting there, our hands hidden beneath the table, I knew one thing for certain.
We were in this together.
When dinner wound down, my mom hugged Adrian before leaving. “Take care of him,” she whispered.
“Always,” he said.
Adrian started stacking plates without a word. I tried to help, but he gave me that look—half stern, half tender—that said sit down before you face-plant into the pasta bowl.
So I sat and watched him move around the kitchen. The quiet clatter of dishes, the running water, and the faint sound of frogs outside all felt absurdly domestic. Like this was a life we’d been living all along and not something we were clawing our way back to.
When he was rinsing the last glass, I broke the tension. “He didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”
Adrian’s jaw flexed. “He’s not wrong.”
“He’s not right, either.”
That earned me a glance. A tired one, but it landed.
I stepped closer, close enough that our arms brushed when I took the towel from him.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For letting him make me doubt myself.”
I swallowed hard. “You didn’t. You were there. You’ve always been there.”
Something in him softened then. The distance of dinner melted away, replaced by the familiar warmth that had lived between us long before the crash.
He reached up, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “You should rest.”
“Only if you do, too.”
Later, when we settled into bed, I felt his hand find mine under the covers. A simple, wordless gesture that spoke volumes.
The day had taken its shots, but we were still standing. Still side by side.