Page 112 of His Greatest Muse

Dad is watching me when I look at him again. There’s a soft expression on his face that looks a lot like awe. It’s not the first time he or anyone else in my family has looked at me like that. Always when I’m with Tinsley.

“How long has she thought you like Jell-O?” he asks.

“Since we were children.”

When she was seven and I was six, to be exact. The first time she told me that raspberry Jell-O was her favourite snack, and I lied and told her it was mine too, just so we would have something in common. I’ve been eating it with her ever since, even though the gelatine sits terribly in my stomach.

“I remember the first Christmas your grandmother made Jell-O salad for dessert and didn’t tell you what it was made out of before you ate a massive spoonful. You spent the night in the bathroom throwing up.”

“It’s not the first time that shit has made me throw up.”

“Yet you still eat it.”

“For Tinsley.”

He smiles almost sadly and leans his elbows on the edge of the mattress. “That’s love, Noah. It makes us do the stupidest things. Like eating something we know will make us sick just so we can see them happy. I’m sorry I never taught you about something as important as what it means to love someone.”

I push away the tingle of emotion his statement attempts to fill me with before it has the fucking chance. I’ll accept his apology today and let him prove himself. But that’s all I’m willing to do. There will be no forgiveness yet. No father-and-son moments. With no expectations, you beat disappointment at its own game. And I hate to lose.

Instead of thinking about it any further, I change the subject to something safer and comfortable, despite still being in relation to Tinsley. Everything is about her, just the way I like it.

“If you want to start making things up to me, I need you to do something right now.”

He’s quick to agree. “Anything.”

“Plan a birthday party for Tinsley. As good of one as we can have in this fucking place.”

His expression shifts to something that looks too similar to pride. I choose to ignore it. “Consider it done.”

* * *

Keeping Tinsleyout of my room was the hardest part of the day. Her parents had to drag her out of the hospital with the promise of a hot shower. She turned them down at first, but when Braden told her she stunk and she looked at me for confirmation, my nod—albeit a lying nod—was the deciding factor. Her supposed smell wouldn’t have bothered me even if it was real. I just needed her to leave so my room could be transformed for her.

My father worked overtime to do as I asked. There’s a two-tier silver-and-black cake on the table beside the stack of Jell-O and birthday presents. Bundles of balloons float along the ceiling above a Happy Birthday banner he’s currently hanging.

My room is big, on a floor guarded night and day. A request I learned came from Dad the moment he arrived at the hospital. Mom said it came from a place of worry, but it could have been for privacy. The lack of trust I have in him is alarming. Maybe even a bit unfair.

Tinsley’s been gone for a while now. I’m growing more agitated as the minutes go by without her here.This will make her happy, I remind myself. I refuse to allow her to miss a single birthday, especially on my behalf. It’s not the same as celebrating on the exact day, but that won’t matter to her.

“They should be up here any minute,” Dad says. With a finishing strip of tape on the edge of the birthday banner, he steps down from the chair he was using as a step stool and pats his hands on his thighs.

I nod. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

As he starts busying himself with cleaning up the garbage from the decorations, I look for the bag Adalyn and Mom brought for me. The nurses changed my bandage this morning and confirmed to my nerve-racked mother that I’m healing well. I want to put a shirt on so I don’t look like a fucking slob for Tinsley.

“Can you get me a shirt?” I ask.

He nods quickly. The black duffle bag beside the window is so full of shit the zipper is hard to undo as he crouches in front of it. “Is this one okay?” A plain black T-shirt dangles between his fingertips.

“Yeah.”

Bundling it in a fist, he struggles to zip the bag up before walking toward the bed. I watch as the want to help me get dressed drifts across his mind, but he lets the thought slip away, handing me the shirt instead. His eyes grow haunted as he retreats.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome. Is there anything else you need before everyone else gets here? Anything I should add?”

---