Page 85 of I'm Your Guy
“We’re at the hospital, and they’re admitting her. But it might be nothing. She fainted during Bingo. They’re running some tests.”
“Fainted.” His breath falters. “What do the tests say?”
“We don’t know yet. I only called now because you’d kill me if I didn’t.”
He sags. “You’ll call me when you know more?”
“Yes and no. I don’t think I’ll hear anything until morning, and I don’t want you staying up all night, listening for the phone. I’ll call you after six a.m. Your time.”
“Any hour,” he repeats.
“Tommy, you’re panicking—”
He hangs up, which seems rude. He slaps the phone down on the coffee table, his knuckles white. And he sucks in a breath like a drowning man.
I hold very still, wondering if there’s anything I can do. Pain radiates from his every pore, and I feel so helpless right now.
Suddenly, he grabs a stocking off the table—the cheerful quilted one he’d chosen for his mother, and hurls it at the Christmas tree.
I’d never known a stocking could be aerodynamic. But I guess I’d never seen a professional athlete throw one before, because it catapults into the tree with startling force.
“Tommaso,” I gasp. “The tree!”
“So what? It doesn’t matter. All this work? A waste.” He thrusts his head into his hands. “Big fucking waste. I should have known I wouldn’t get the chance to make everything right.”
Oh no. My heart seizes. Two minutes ago, he was as happy and relaxed as I’d ever seen him. Now he’s practically vibrating with heartbreak.
I put a hand on his back, where the muscles are locked up tight. “Tommaso, is your mom sick?”
“Cancer,” he mutters. “She’s getting chemo. They say she could beat it, but…” He shakes his head, like it hurts to think about. “They give her a seventy percent chance.”
“Oh.” So many pieces are falling into place for me. The urgency of his home design. It has to be perfect.
This man doesn’t just want a perfect Christmas with his mom. He’s afraid it will be the last Christmas with his mom. If she even reaches Colorado. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move. Touching him is like touching a wall. Maybe he wants me to leave. Sometimes a guy just has to cry, and sometimes he’d rather do that in private.
But I’m torn. Six a.m. is a long time from now. If I walk out the door, he’ll just brood for the next seven hours.
Tommaso is a good man, and a strong man. But he’s also the loneliest man I know. Someone has to tell him it will be okay.
And I think that someone is me.
I rise slowly. Then I tug one of his oversized hands into mine, forcing him to look up. “Come with me for a second. It’s important.”
“Where?” he demands.
“Not far.”
He lets himself be nudged off the sofa, and I lead him around the furniture to the Christmas tree. I pluck the stocking off the rug where it’s landed. “You’re catastrophizing,” I say quietly. “I understand why. But you’re not helping your mother right now.” I hand him the stocking, and he looks down at it sheepishly.
“Sorry,” he grunts. “Not trying to ruin your tree.”
“Your tree,” I correct. “Now sit down on the rug. Come on.”
“Here?”
To demonstrate, I plunk myself down on the rug. And then I kick my legs out straight and lie down, putting my head under the bottom branches. “Let’s go, Jersey. You did this as a kid, right?”
