Page 82 of Back Outside Edge

A stir across from me, and I wince. Probably shouldn’t be cursing in front of Evan’s mom. But all I really care about is the man lying in front of me.

I stare at his hand, thin and pale under mine. I can't see his expression, but his hand wiggles away. I let it go, the lump in my throat growing. Tears prickling. He doesn't forgive me. How could he? How could he forgive what I did to him?

But a moment later, that hand settles on the top of my head. Joy rushes back to me. Is it forgiveness? It feels like it. And oh, fuck, I love this man.

It’s not a new thought. Not anymore. But it’s different, thinking it when he’s here, in front of me. Even more concrete. A knowledge so deep that it brings peace with it. As if my heart has been yearning toward him forever. And he’s here, in front of me, alive. "I was so scared," I manage to mumble.

His hand pets my hair, and my mind stops questioning. He has forgiven me, if he ever blamed me to begin with. "I didn't realize you didn't know," he answers. "I only just found out you haven’t been getting updates. I'm sorry too."

When tears touch the back of my hand, I realize I'm crying. "Are you ok?"

"Better now." His voice is full of bravery. Or I just think it is because I know that he is so brave. I still can't see, but his voice also tells me he's trying to smile again. "I'm so glad you're here."

The air moves as Evan’s mom stands, then walks past me. Evan jumps a little, like he'd forgotten she was there, but doesn't say anything. The door clicks softly as it closes, then the clack of two sets of footsteps retreating breaks the absolute silence of the room.

Bridget deserves so much more than the autographed picture I found deep in the recesses of my backpack. I'll frame the picture, send it with a fruit basket, maybe. Or one filled with candy. Or both. Tickets to the next competition in New York. A picture of Evan and me together once he's healed. Yes, that.

Because I am not letting this man go again.

I want to interrogate him, find out everything that's happened to him since he fell, since before he fell, since the moment I let him out of my life. And I want to know how he feels. Has he missed me?

Can he truly forgive me enough to trust me again? Will he let me love him the way I want to? Does he want me back in his life? Can we have a future?

But when I raise my head to look at his face, even though a small smile is on his lips and that glow is in his eyes, he's still covered in fatigue. And pain, if the creases by his mouth are any indication. I know my boyfriend—fuck, I hope he’s still my boyfriend. But as desperate as I am for answers to all of my questions, he needs rest. His eyes are closed again and the hand on the back of my head slips down to my neck. He might already be asleep.

"Evan," I whisper.

His eyes struggle to open, and he offers me that wan little attempt at a smile again. "Sorry." His voice is slurred. "I was already tired and for some reason seeing you is just..." His voice trails away, and his eyes close again.

"You feel like you can finally let yourself relax?" I ask, hoping it's true. It's how I feel. Like a week's worth of constant adrenaline is rushing out of me. The crash is so hard I could fall asleep on the spot, and I'm not the injured one.

Another heartbreaking attempt at a smile, just a quirk of the edges of his lips. "Yeah. It's that. I'm so tired, Stefan."

"I know, love." Love? Since when am I a fan of sappy? Since Evan came into my life, that's when. I lean forward and kiss his forehead. Then the tip of his nose. Then, so light it's the faintest brush, his lips. I don't know if I have the right to do that, but I can't stop myself. "Go to sleep. I'll be here."

My need for information is not worth keeping him awake. Not when the shadows around his eyes are so dark they look like bruises.

I'm dozing in the chair next to the bed, holding Evan's hand, when the door opens and the woman I barely noticed earlier walks in. Now that I take the time to look at her, it is obvious who she is. Evan couldn't look more like her if he tried. The same full lips, amber-brown eyes, curly dark hair. Even their noses look the same.

She smiles when our eyes meet, and yes, he inherited that, too. "You're Stefan Petryk," she whispers. She doesn't look angry at me. Does she not know the way I left him?

Fuck, does she even know that we're together? We've never talked about his parents, about what he's told them. Has he even come out to them as bi? Fuck. Did I out him when I rushed in here and fell at his feet?

"Mrs. Marquez," I answer, letting go of Evans's hand and standing up, rubbing my palms on my thighs. "I..." I have no idea what to say.

But she just smiles again and comes over to me to wrap me in her arms. It's a surprisingly comforting hug. While my mom exudes expensive perfume with a chaser of aloofness, Mrs. Marquez smells like what I assume home should smell like. Cinnamon, maybe a hint of chocolate. And if it's overlaid with the astringent scent of hospital, well, so is everything here.

She's small and curvy and warm. And I love her immediately. "I'm so glad you're here for my boy," she says. Her voice is musical, carrying the curved vowels of another country's native tongue. I should know which one.

No question Evan is Hispanic. But how come I never questioned what country his parents come from? Am I so selfish I never even considered it? As a child of immigrants myself, I should know better. Our parents' cultures shape us, and we're both first-generation children. At least from his mother's side.

Why didn’t we talk about his family more? Why didn’t I ask? I’m such a fucking asshole.

"I'd have been here sooner, but I didn't know where he was." I don't mean for it to come out accusatory, but I think it does. If she wanted his friends around him, she should have told us how to find him.

Mrs. Marquez tightens her arms around me. "We were letting Evan make that decision, honey. I'm sorry. He had his phone. We assumed, since nobody came, that he didn't want anybody. But I'm so glad he finally reached out to you."

Not so much. Or at least, not until a few minutes ago. It hurts, though, knowing that Evan had his phone, could have reached out, and didn't. But he didn't know I wasn't getting updates. He told me that, and I have to believe him.