Page 75 of Seven Minutes
“I’ll hold you to that,” my mom said, dabbing her eyes with a napkin.
I swallowed hard, heart twisting. “Yeah. Me too.”
Adrian set his glass down, but the twitch remained until Ireached for his hand, holding it firmly in mine. Then he steadied, his mouth twisting into a grateful smile.
The scent of garlic bread filled the lull. Mom made a joke about my dad’s terrible sweater, and laughter picked up again, polite and brittle. But beneath it all, the ghost of that beach day lingered—the sun, the water, the feeling of him against me, young and sure and certain that nothing could ever go wrong.
And sitting there, with my parents and my half-healed body and the man I still loved pretending to be fine, I realized something terrifying:
For years he’d been silently slipping away from me, becoming someone else, someone I hadn’t recognized. But he hadn’t changed. He’d just gotten lost.
And more than anything, I wanted to help him find his way back.
Things lightened after that. My mom talked about her garden, and Adrian complimented the rosemary garlic bread. The table felt like neutral ground—no pity, no worry—just clinking silverware and smiling faces.
It didn't last.
Dad cleared his throat between bites of pasta. “Have you been in touch with your office, son?”
“Yeah. I might start working from home soon. Just light stuff, research.”
He nodded, satisfied. Then his attention shifted. “And you, Adrian? Back at work yet?”
Adrian shook his head, his fork motionless. “Not yet. I’m on extended leave.”
Dad’s brows lifted. “Extended?”
“I wanted to be here,” Adrian said simply. “To help.”
There was a beat of silence before Dad answered, just long enough for the words to curdle. “You’re a doctor, Adrian. Don’t you think Eli needs to learn his own limits? You can’t be there every second.”
Something sharp flickered behind Adrian’s eyes, but his voice stayed even. “He almost died, sir. Forgive me if I’m not ready to test those limits just yet.”
Mom’s hand stilled on her glass. Dad exhaled through his nose. “I just don’t want you to lose yourself in guilt.”
That word—guilt—hit the table like a dropped knife.
My stomach twisted. I glanced at Adrian, but he was already looking at me. We both knew what my father didn’t: that guilt was the third person in this room, lying between us every night we tried to sleep.
Mom jumped in, too brightly. “Who wants pie?”
The conversation shifted, but it was too late. Something in me curled tight, as if I was back in the hospital bed with everyone whispering around me. I reached under the table and rested my hand on Adrian’s knee.
He startled faintly, then relaxed. Adrian didn’t look at me, but I felt the smallest press of his fingers over mine, grounding and sure.
By the time dessert was served, we were still quiet. But not apart.
My father’s disapproval hadn’t driven a wedge between us. It had welded something instead. We might not have the perfect answer or the perfect recovery, but sitting there, our hands hidden beneath the table, I knew one thing for certain.
We were in this together.
When dinner wound down, my mom hugged Adrian before leaving. “Take care of him,” she whispered.
“Always,” he said.
Adrian started stacking plates without a word. I tried to help, but he gave me that look—half stern, half tender—that saidsit down before you face-plant into the pasta bowl.
So I sat and watched him move around the kitchen. The quiet clatter of dishes, the running water, and the faint sound of frogs outside all felt absurdly domestic. Like this was a life we’d been living all along and not something we were clawing our way back to.
