Page 62 of Things We Hide from the Light
“You got it. Now it’s my turn for some answers.”
“You know, it’s getting pretty late. I should go,” I said. But before my sore muscles could contract to get me into a standing position, Nash gripped my thigh with his hand.
“Nope. You can’t leave me alone with thawing broccoli and this god-awful tea. You’ll be too worried about me to sleep.”
“You’re awfully confident for someone who claims to be a husk of a man.”
“Tell me why you know all the right things to do.”
I wanted to throw a quippy answer at him, to keep my own secrets. But for some strange reason, I didn’t want him to feel like he was the only one laid bare.
I blew out a breath.
“That sounds like the beginning of a long story,” he said.
“A long, boring story. There’s still time to send me home,” I reminded him hopefully.
He put the tea down and then carefully slid his arm around me.
“That’s your bad shoulder,” I reminded him as he used his other hand to press my head to his chest next to the broccoli.
“Honey, I know. You’re giving me a place to rest it.”
I didn’t know what to do with the fact that I didn’t hate the way his arm felt around me. Warm and solid. Protective. As a rule, I didn’t cuddle or snuggle or any other verbs that applied to platonic canoodling. That kind of touching was unnecessary. Worse, it gave men ideas about the future.
Yet here I was, cozied up in the danger zone with my head on the chest of a man who wanted a wife and kids. Clearly I had learned nothing.
Come on, Lina “I Make Bad Choices” Solavita. Sit up and get the hell out, I warned myself.
But I didn’t move a muscle.
“That’s better,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “Now talk.”
“The abbreviated version is I went into cardiac arrest at fifteen on the soccer field and had to be revived.”
He was silent for a beat and then said, “Yeah, Angel. I’m gonna need the extended director’s cut with commentary version.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Angelina,” he said with just a hint of grumpy cop in his tone.
“Ugh, fine. It was district finals on a cold, fall night during my sophomore year. The stadium was packed. It was the first time the team had made it that far in the tournament. Two minutes left in the game, and we were all tied up at 2–2. I’d just intercepted a pass and was sprinting with teenage confidence and energy toward the goal.”
I could practically reach out and touch that moment. Feel the sharp edge of the cold air as it hit my lungs, the warm looseness of my muscles. Hear the distant roar of the crowd.
Nash’s thumb brushed my arm, back and forth, and for once touch felt comforting.
“And then there was…nothing. It was like I blinked and the next thing I know, I’m flat on my back in a hospital roomsurrounded by strangers. I asked if I scored, becausethatwas the most important thing to me. I didn’t know my parents were in the waiting room wondering if I’d ever wake up again. I didn’t know that an entire stadium of people—including my teammates—watched me go into cardiac arrest.”
“Jesus, baby,” Nash murmured, his chin brushing the top of my head.
“Yeah. My coach started CPR until the paramedics got on the field. My parents were in the stands. Dad jumped the fence. The other moms just made a circle around my mom and held on to her.”
Tears pricked my eyes at the memory and I cleared my throat to dislodge the annoying lump of emotion.
“They revived me in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. But information didn’t travel quite as quickly as it does today,” I said lightly.
“So everyone left behind thought you hadn’t made it,” Nash filled in the blank I’d left.
