Page 74 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

Sloane’s team has been in and out all afternoon, and Pauline spent much of the evening playing the guitar and singing her favorite songs.

The hospital staff enjoyed it, with most of the nurses and doctors stopping in to listen for a few minutes under the guise of checking on Sloane, even the ones who aren’t assigned to her care.

But the music didn’t cause so much as a flicker, and neither has anything else. Pauline finally gave in an hour ago and left for the hotel Bianca booked for her. Like me, she’s been awake for more than forty hours, but at seventy years old, she’s definitely feeling it worse.

I have no doubt she’ll be back as soon as she’s able, but for now—for the first time since this nightmare began—I’m alone with Sloane.

And I plan on taking advantage of it.

I start with the strawberry-scented lotion Camila bought when she was getting me clothes. I pump some into my hand, then pick up one of Sloane’s feet and start gently rubbing it in the way I’ve seen her do so many times over the last few months on FaceTime.

Her toes are painted black, like always. Except for one on each foot—bright blue, the exact same color as my jersey, with tiny number sevens drawn across them like a love letter.

She told me it was her show of spirit for the playoffs.

“Do you think I’ll be able to talk you into painting all your nails blue when we make it to the Super Bowl?” I ask as I move to her second foot. “Or will that violate the Black Widow dress code?”

I move on to her ankles and calves, smoothing the lotion in circles as I wait for an answer that doesn’t come.

That’s okay. I just have to believe it will.

Once I’ve covered up to her knees in lotion, I slide her feet into the bright-blue socks the nurse brought by earlier before pulling the covers back down. Then I move to her hands.

I’m careful of her IV and the pulse ox taped to her finger as I spread lotion on first one hand and then the other, trying not to notice how small they look, how delicate.

Instead, I concentrate on the calluses she has on her fingertips from playing guitar.

Little and round, with string marks in a few of them, they’re so different than the weightlifting ones I’ve got on my palms.

No less a sign of strength, though. Not on Sloane, who is the strongest woman I’ve ever met. And that’s saying something, considering the sisters I’ve got.

The sweet, strawberry scent of Sloane’s favorite lotion—courtesy of abuela’s cheat sheet, I’m sure—fills the room, reminding me of a million stolen moments with her.

My hands tremble at the memories, at the flashes of Sloane’s smile, her shuttered brown eyes, her head thrown back as she presses her body into mine.

It’ll happen again , I promise myself as I move to her wrists and forearms. Those moments and so many more.

I close my eyes for a second, her hands clutched in mine, and let myself imagine the more.

Sloane onstage, singing to me.

Sloane cheering at some future game.

Sloane laughing up at me, wearing nothing but my Super Bowl rings.

Sloane in a long black dress, a bouquet of white peonies and purple calla lilies in her hands.

So many flashes. So many memories to come. I have to believe there’s time for every single one of them, even if that time isn’t now.

I force myself to drop her hands, to come back to the present as I squeeze out more lotion and smooth it over her forearms, her elbows, her biceps. As I do, I trace soft fingers over the long, branchlike tattoos that cover her arms.

“You know, I didn’t have a clue what these were when I first met you.

I thought they were some kind of weird tree or something.

But then I looked them up and realized they aren’t branches at all, are they?

They’re lightning strikes. A clue to the real you open for the world to see—lightning that doesn’t destroy but marks where you survived. ”

I get a washcloth from the pile of towels the nurse brought and run it under warm water before moving back to the bed to wash her billion-dollar face.

“I know it’s not fair to ask,” I whisper as I trail the cloth over her forehead and down her cheeks. “But I need you to do it again, corazón. I need you to come back one more time. Please. One more time. For me. For us.”

She doesn’t move as I slide the washcloth over her chin, around the raw corners of her perfect mouth. “If anyone can do it, Sloane, it’s you. You’re so strong. So strong and so smart and so passionate and so goddamn wonderful.

“But that’s not exactly a surprise to you, is it? And while I love every gorgeous, powerful inch of your thousand good sides, none of that is why I fell for you.”

Careful not to hurt her, I wipe around the oxygen cannula, pausing for a moment to put some Aquaphor just under her nostrils to keep the plastic from rubbing against her delicate skin. It’s a trick I’ve never forgotten from helping abuela Ximena take care of my father all those years ago.

When I’m done, I put the washcloth on the table next to her bed and reach for the hairbrush Camila also included in the care package. As I do, I watch Sloane’s face intently, hoping for some sign that she hears me. That she feels me.

But there’s still nothing as I start to gently brush her hair, careful of the bandage on the left side of her head, where they drained the hematoma.

“Do you want to know why I fell in love with you?” I whisper as I smooth the brush through her long red locks, moving to her ends and detangling slowly whenever I hit a snag.

“I started to fall the second you tried to hug my abuela. And I do mean try .” I smile at the memory of their awkward first contact.

“I started then, and I never stopped. I fell harder when you called to give me a hard time about the jumbotron and harder still when you kissed me outside that damn restaurant to protect my reputation. But the moment I knew I was really in trouble? The moment I figured out you had the power to break my heart wide open?”

I graze a gentle hand over her too-pale cheek.

“That was the first time you sang to me in the hotel. You felt like heaven and sounded like salvation. That’s why I had those earrings made for you.

And that’s why ‘Three Little Birds’ is the first song I listen to every single morning I get up without you. ”

There’s a small knot in her hair. I pinch the curl right above it and slowly brush at it until it smooths out.

“Before that night, I don’t think I ever imagined the jumble of things inside me could be all right. But you charged in the way you always do and changed my mind. You changed everything.”

Tears bloom in my eyes. Instead of fighting them, this time I just let them fall as I sing the first several lines of “Three Little Birds” to her. But I’m a football player, not a pop star, and my voice breaks every few words.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper as I put the hairbrush down. “I don’t sound half as good as you. But I still mean every word.”

I replace the brush with my fingers, tenderly stroking her hair back from her cheek as I continue singing the lyrics all the way through to the end.

I keep my eyes trained on her face, on the shadows her lashes cast on her cheekbones and the little freckles scattered like stars over her nose.

I love kissing the freckles that trail over her shoulders and across her back like comets, but these ones will always be my favorite.

I wait for her to blink, to swallow, to show by the tiniest movement that she hears me. That she feels me.

But there’s nothing.

My heart breaks a little, pain radiating through my chest and nearly putting me on the floor. I steel myself against it, against the disappointment that presses in on me from every side. Instead, I take Sloane’s limp hand in mine.

I press kisses to her palm and the pulse point on her wrist, pausing for just a moment to feel the beat of her heart beneath my lips.

It’s already so much stronger than it was when we brought her in.

I hold on to that knowledge with every fiber of my being, with every drop of hope I have left inside of me.

And I whisper, “Everything’s going to be all right, Sloane.

Whatever happens next, however long it takes, and wherever you need to go, everything’s going to be just fine. That’s my promise to you.”

And then I drop my forehead onto the bed railing and let the tears fall until I have nothing left.