We pull up out front, and Tristan insists on walking me to the door. I texted my mom on our way over, so she’s already waiting for us. It’s a struggle to get out with my gala dress, but Tristan helps. He keeps his hand at the small of my back as we approach the front of the house.
My mom glances between the two of us before settling on me as her eyes well up. “Aurora, I’m so glad you’re here.” Her complexion is splotchy and pink from crying, which makes the dark circles under her eyes look worse. Her hair is frizzy and tied back in a messy top knot.
I step forward and wrap my arms around her in a tight embrace, my eyes burning from hours of crying and the fresh tears forming now. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else, Mom.”
She pulls away and looks at Tristan. “Who is this?”
“Tristan Westbrook,” he says. “I’m sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances, Mrs. Marshall.”
She nods. “Please, come in.” She ushers us into our small but cozy living room off of the main entryway.
My dad is throwing more wood into the fireplace when we walk in. I give him a hug, and he shakes Tristan’s hand before we sit, Tristan and I on the couch, Mom and Dad in chairs across from us.
“That dress is beautiful, Aurora,” Mom says in a hoarse voice.
I try to smile. “Thank you.”
“We appreciate you bringing her home, Tristan,” Dad says, Mom nodding in agreement.
“Of course.” Tristan glances at me. “I’ll let you talk to your family,” he says in a hushed tone.
“You’re leaving?” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Please stay.” His presence next to me makes me feel stronger, almost as if I have an anchor to keep me grounded, to keep my mind from racing in too many different directions. I don’t have the strength to hide the emotions that are tied to feeling that way. In this instance, I don’t mind Tristan knowing what’s going on inside me.
There’s hesitation in his eyes before he says, “Okay.”
“We’ll head back to the hospital in the morning. Dr. Collins said he was stable and suggested we get some rest while he’s doing okay.”
I let out a slow breath and nod. “I think I’m going to change into something more comfortable.” I rise from the couch and Tristan follows suit.
My dad stands and holds his hand out to Mom while he shoots Tristan a wary look. “Aurora, see if you can find something of mine for Tristan to change into. I’m sure he’ll be comfortable in the guest room.”
“That’s not necessary, sir,” Tristan says. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Nonsense,” my mom cuts in. “You brought Aurora all the way here. We aren’t going to let you turn around and drive back tonight.”
“It’s not a problem,” he assures her.
She nods. “Well, thank you again.”
He offers her a polite smile. “It was my pleasure.”
Mom and Dad walk toward the kitchen, leaving Tristan and me alone. “Thank you for bringing me home,” I say, looking at the carpet under my heels.
He cups my cheek and lifts my face so our eyes are level. “I’m glad I can be here for you.” His thumb brushes across my skin.
“Will you stay here tonight? Please?”
His forehead creases. “If that’s what you want.”
“Unless you need to go back. I know tonight was important.”
He smiles. “I’m confident Max and Skylar took care of it. If you want me to stay, I’m not going anywhere.”
Stopping in the kitchen where Mom and Dad are drinking tea at the breakfast bar, I let them know Tristan is staying.
Dad arches a brow. “Is there something going on between the two of you?”
“Dad, now’s not really the time to talk about that.” Not with Adam being sick, or with Tristan in the other room where he can hear us.
“The way he watches you,” Mom says. “You seem important.”
The heat rises in my cheeks. “I can’t speak for him.”
“Well, how do you feel?”
Oh, hell, what a loaded question. How desperately I wish I could confide in my mom about the feelings I shouldn’t have for Tristan, but the timing . . . I can’t right now.
“I feel like I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
She frowns. “Okay. We’ll see you in the morning, honey.”
I hug them both before returning to the living room. Tristan looks over at me but says nothing about what I said to my parents. I reach over and slip my hand into his, and we walk upstairs. We pass Adam’s room, and I pause. My hand is opening the door before I can stop myself.
Tristan steps inside with me, my hand still grasped in his, and stays silent.
I look around the room, taking in all his old video game posters. Clothes cover most of the floor, and his bed is unmade. All the poor kid wanted was to sleep until noon on the weekends, hang with his friends, and play video games. Now he’s stuck living at the hospital. He’s hooked up to machines and fighting to stay alive.
I blow out a breath, my chest heavy and my eyes watering again. “This isn’t fair,” I whisper.
“I know,” Tristan murmurs, squeezing my hand. After another few minutes, he guides me out of the room and down the hall until I stop at my closed bedroom door.
“You can’t laugh,” I say in a tired voice.
He peers at me. “Why would I laugh?”
“Just promise me you won’t.”
He brushes the back of his hand across my cheek. “I promise.”
I nod and open the door before stepping inside. Everything is a different shade of purple. The bedding, the curtains, my desk—everything. “I haven’t lived here for, like, three and a half years,” I say as though it’s some form of explanation.
He presses his lips together against a smile. “Sure,” he says. “It’s . . . nice.”
“Oh hush, it’s overwhelmingly purple. It’s terrible.”
Tristan shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the chair at my desk, and slowly unbuttons his white collared dress shirt. “It’s fine, Rory.”
I sigh, guilt trickling in. I don’t care about my room right now. Not when Adam is stuck sleeping on a hospital bed instead of his own. “I’ll go grab you something to wear.” I slip out of the room and find a pair of sweatpants and one of my dad’s old T-shirts.
When I return to my room and close the door, I find Tristan sitting shirtless on the end of my bed.
It takes me a minute to find my voice; my head is in too many places right now. “I found these. I’m pretty sure they’ll fit.” I toss the shirt and pants at him and turn away, walking to my dresser to find something for me to wear to bed. I sneak into the bathroom across the hall and change into an old hoodie from high school and a pair of worn gray leggings. My reflection in the mirror makes me pause. I cringe at the smudged eyeliner and black tear stains running down both of my cheeks from the excessive amount of mascara I had on for the gala. My hair is still curled and set around my face, which makes it look odd. I grab a makeup wipe and do my best to get rid of it before flicking off the light on my way out.
Tristan is dressed this time when I walk into the room. I turn the lamp on and turn off the main light, giving the room a soft golden glow.
“I should let you get some sleep,” he says, stepping toward the door.
I pick at the hem of my hoodie. “You don’t have to sleep in the guest room.”
“It’s not a problem, Rory.”
I look away. “What if I want you to stay with me?”
“You’ve had a long day.” His tone is gentle.
I press my lips together. “Stay. Please.”
“I don’t want to upset your parents.”
“They sleep downstairs. So long as you don’t snore obnoxiously loud or something, they won’t have reason to come up here and check where you’re sleeping.”
He exhales slowly, nodding. “Okay.” He watches me crawl into my bed, then walks around to the other side and sits on top of the bedding.
“This doesn’t feel real,” I whisper.
He nods. “That’s understandable.” He reaches over and tucks my hair away from my face.
“My head is spinning so fast right now. I’m trying to figure this whole thing out, but I know there’s no explanation.”
He frowns. “You’re right. There isn’t. You’re doing what you can, Rory. You’re here with your family.”
“But I can’t help him,” I whisper as I lie back and stretch out my legs. “I . . .” I choke on a sob, and turn my face to look at him.
His eyes search mine as he gets under the sheets and lies on his side, and then he wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. There’s plenty of room for two people in my queen-sized bed, but Tristan is pressed right against me; I’m not about to ask him to move.
I press my face into the crook of his neck and cling to him.
He holds on to me until the sobbing quiets. I knew the silence would come in time, after crying for so long, but the fear of the unknown still weighs on my chest.
He cups my cheek in his hand and draws my face away so that I’m looking at him. An idea hits me so fast I don’t have time to register it before I say, “Can you use magic to heal him?”
Tristan’s face falls. “Sweetheart, no, I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“But you healed me—the day we met after Max hurt me—you healed me.”
“You had cuts and bruises and a mild concussion. I can heal those injuries, but I can’t fix this. Fae magic is powerful, but it can’t cure cancer or sickness.”
It’s not fair. What the hell is so great about having magic if it can’t cure a human illness?
My bottom lip trembles. “I thought . . .” My voice breaks off, and more tears spring free, rolling down my cheeks.
Tristan swipes the tears off my face with his thumbs. “You should get some sleep,” he says softly.
I shake my head. “I can’t sleep.” I try to shift away from him so I can get up. “I should go back to the hospital and wait for visiting hours. That way I’m there when he wakes up.”
He sighs. “Aurora, I don’t think you should sit at the hospital all night.”
“What the hell else am I supposed to do?” I snap, sitting up.
He runs his hand up and down my arm. “Let me help you,” he murmurs.
“How?” I ask, my voice trembling with a fresh onslaught of tears.
“You trust me?” he checks.
“You know I do.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “Lie back and close your eyes.”
I follow his instruction and reach for his hand. “You’re not going to leave, are you?”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m not going anywhere, Rory.” He snakes his arm around my waist and pulls me back against him. “I’m going to help you sleep, all right?”
“Okay.” I hug the arm he has wrapped around me.
He leans in and whispers words into my ear, soft and lulling, until exhaustion floods in, and I drift off into a black, dreamless sleep.