“You’re sure? He’s the kind of gangly kid with red hair.”
But her attempt at humor was meant to cover something else and it failed. Her face crinkled up. She did a funny thing with her nose and squinched her eyes hard.
The facial contortions didn’t help her gain control. He could tell she was making a valiant, valiant effort not to cry again. The tears squeezed out anyway.
He wanted to just shove his hands in his pockets and wait it out. But he was helpless against what he did next.
“Maybe…I…am…having…just…a…little…bit…of…cognitive…impairment.” She was scrubbing at her eyes with that balled up tissue.
He went to her and pulled her against him, wrapped his arms around the small of her back and held on tight.
He could feel the wetness soaking into his shirt. And the warmth oozing out of her body.
And her heart beating below his.
Now, for his own protection and for hers, would be a great time to confirm that emotional changeability was definitely a sign of concussion.
But somehow those words about the proven correlation between concussion and emotions got trapped in his throat and never made it to his mouth.
Somehow his one hand left the small of her back, went to her hair and smoothed it soothingly.
That feeling was back.
Of being alive.
Only standing there in the vet’s office parking lot, with sunshine that felt warmer after the months of rain, with her body pressed into his, Brendan was aware he didn’t feel resentful of waking up, of being alive. Not this time.
Not at all.
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