Chapter 102
Tristan
Two Weeks Later
Are you sure you should be doing that?” my dad asks as I use my crutches to hobble from the living room to the kitchen in Dad and Bobbie’s house.
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine, I promise.”
He grunts. “See how it’s not fun to be babied when you’re sick?”
I’m not about to point out the difference between early-onset Alzheimer’s and almost getting crushed by hundreds of tons of concrete, but I decide against it.
And, maybe he has a point.
It turns out that my injuries were far more extensive than I thought when I was busy being buried by a parking garage.
After being checked out by FEMA nurses and finally making it to a crowded hospital sometime in the wee hours of the morning after the earthquake, the final count on my injuries was:
1 broken ankle,
1 concussion,
1 pulmonary contusion,
2 fractured fingers,
2 minor compression fractures in my lumbar vertebrae,
3 broken ribs,
and innumerable bruises, abrasions, and lacerations across my hands, wrists, and legs that require dozens of stitches.
Many times during the week that I was in the hospital after the earthquake, I was told how lucky I am to be alive.
“Do you want any coffee while I’m up?” I call back to my dad.
He’s sitting in the living room, watching a game on the TV. He and Bobbie both escaped the earthquake completely unscathed. Somehow, their house hasn’t even been harmed, aside from some broken dishes and a single broken window. Miracles do exist.
My apartment, on the other hand, is just a dusty smear on the lot where it used to stand. And so I have, once again, moved back in with Dad and Bobbie.
“No coffee, but I’ll take some toast!” Dad says.
“I don’t know what about me offering you coffee made me think that I was also going to make you toast,” I say, hobbling back to the living room and sitting down in a chair to elevate my leg.
“You’re gonna miss having me around, won’t you?” he says.
Rockwell Gardens, the memory care facility that Dad and Bobbie were on the waitlist for, also survived the earthquake with minimal damage.
They contacted Bobbie last week to inform her that an apartment opened up at their facility, and if Dad and Bobbie were still interested, they could have it.
They said yes and will be moving in another week.
Their house is paid off, and they offered it to me.
When they move out, I’m going to stick around.
A homeowner at twenty-eight. In this economy?
“I’ll miss you constantly,” I say affectionately. And I will. “But don’t worry, I’ll visit.”
“Only if you bring Underwear Model,” Dad says.
Maybe it’s because he forgot Nick’s name and doesn’t want to admit it, but Dad has taken to calling Nick “Underwear Model” after the way Yuritza described him. I don’t mind, because, hell yeah, I’m dating someone who looks like he could be an underwear model.
“I’ll bring him, don’t worry.”
“Where is he, anyway?”
I check my phone. “He should be here any minute.”
Bobbie sticks her head into the living room. “Do you know what cake we need to set out?”
I shake my head. “Haven’t heard. He’s keeping me in suspense.”
This morning was the final custody hearing between Nick and Raquel.
In the aftermath of the quake, Raquel announced her plans to move out of California (“to where it’s safer”) and expressed that she wanted to take Abigail with her.
With that development, we’ve been pretty confident that the judge will not rule in her favor. Especially considering the promotion that Nick has received.
After the earthquake, security footage from Station 27 showed that Fire Chief Marshall Shaw spent the entire earthquake hiding under Captain Hyun’s desk.
When that news came out, he resigned in disgrace.
Elena Andreyevna has been selected as his replacement, and she immediately disregarded Shaw’s plan to transfer Nick to another station.
“No,” she said when she visited Station 27. “You are too valuable to this station. We need you here. And I don’t just need you as a firefighter. I’m promoting you to captain.”
Captain Nick Gutierrez.
That’s hot.
There’s no longer any conflict of interest with our careers. Due to the severity of my injuries, I am unable to return to the field. At least not for the foreseeable future.
Thanks to my background in nursing and my (albeit limited) experience as a paramedic, the SFFD offered me a job as an EMS coordinator and training officer. I start in a month, once I’ve been cleared to return to work.
Bobbie frowns. “Well, I’m going to be optimistic and put out the ‘congratulations’ cake. If he looks sad when he walks in, give me a signal, and I’ll switch it to the ‘Raquel is a bitch’ cake.”
“Did you really get a ‘Raquel is a bitch’ cake?” I call after her as she disappears back into the dining room, where she and Yuritza are decorating for Nick and Abbie.
“Yes I did!” Bobbie calls. “Because she is!”
“You haven’t even met her!” I shout back.
“And we never want to!” Yuritza shouts.
The doorbell rings.
“I got it!” Dad says.
Today seems to be a good day for him, and I’m glad. Tomorrow might be different—maybe even later today will be different—but right now, I’m counting my blessings.
I shove myself to my feet using my crutches. Seconds later, Abigail comes running into the house.
“Tristie!” she shouts, running over to me and throwing her arms around my non-injured leg. I still stagger, almost losing my balance.
“Abbie!” Nick scolds. “Be careful, he’s fragile.”
I wink at my boyfriend. “I’m getting stronger.”
He comes over, wraps his arms around me (very carefully), and kisses me full on the mouth. “Hi, love.”
Ah, so dreamy.
“Hi, love,” I murmur, smiling up at him. I am where I belong: in his arms.
“Wanna watch the game, champ?” Dad asks Abigail, and she nods ferociously, jumping onto the couch.
“How’d the hearing go?” I ask Nick in a whisper.
He smiles grimly. “The judge dismissed Raquel’s claims. He said that because she has never shown any interest in being involved in Abbie’s life until now, and because she wants to move her out of state, she has no grounds for custody.
I did concede that if she ever returns to San Francisco, we could discuss visitation rights. But not now.”
I sigh, relieved. “So we don’t need the ‘Raquel is a bitch’ cake.”
“Huh?”
I kiss his cheek. “Don’t worry about it.”