Tate had been laying low, been keeping himself busy, been keeping himself from thinking too much about the past. He had almost convinced himself a few months ago that that’s all it was; the past. He told himself that getting over it was the only option, that he would never have to face it again. Even though he told himself he would never face any of it again, he had constant reminders everywhere saying that it wouldn’t be that easy. There were girls at parties that gave him glimpses of Danni, the way they moved, or smirked at him like they knew something he didn’t. There were frat guys that made him shudder as they passed, fearing that they would lash out similarly to Jay. He passed people on the street that had eyes so sad, so lost, that he couldn’t help but think of Violet. He saw Missy in the loud girls that didn’t take shit. He saw Jensen in the nice guy that let him borrow his notes when he missed class, once. He saw Evan in the guys that seemed to always be looking for a way out. The reminders were everywhere, but nothing compared to the whispers of the name he couldn’t even think to himself.
If the reminders of everyone else were constant and everywhere then she was his shadow; never leaving him alone until he secluded himself in the dark and let no light in, but even then she was there. She was there in the tremor of his hand when he signed his own name, remembering the shape of her lips when she said it. She was his heart rate, accelerating at the worst of times. She was his hesitance, talking to people that wanted to take him home and ending up disappointed when he declined because he couldn’t stop thinking of the home he built in her. She was his knees knocking when he had to present a paper and his fingers dancing on tables when he was nervous. She was ever present in the way that she was never actually there. Always on his mind but never acknowledged. All because he couldn’t think her name or it would be over. If he thought too hard about her, the facade of being okay would crumble. Because as loathe as he was to admit it, he missed her. He missed-
His head flew up faster than it had any right to, and it took him a few seconds to figure out where the name had come from. As soon as he realized it was the TV, he scrambled for the remote and turned the volume up to catch what was being said on the news.
Tipper. Car crash. One person injured. Tipper. Hospitalized. Possible head injury. Tipper. Tipper. Tipper.
The name that he had been so focused on not thinking was now consuming him. Swallowing him whole. He knew what hospital she was staying at, he knew how to get there. He knew that going to see her was possibly a catastrophic mistake. He knew that she probably didn’t want to see him. He knew he wouldn’t let that stop him until she said it to his face. His keys were in his hand and he was out the door before he realized what was happening.
The lobby wasn’t busy in the hospital when he arrived. A few people here and there, crying or whispering. He didn’t pay attention to them. He was leaning on the counter, breathing raggedly and the receptionist looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow. “Tipper Stancil.” He breathed. The words tried to catch in his throat but he forced them out. “What room is she in?” The receptionist starts to ask whether he’s related and he feels a growl start in the back of his throat when he feels a hand on his arm. He goes to tug his arm away and turns to yell the person who had the audacity to touch him but he can’t speak, or move. Because this woman, who is definitely not Tipper Stancil, definitely has some similar features and he knows without asking who this woman is. When she asks how he knows her daughter, he stutters out “I- well. I mean- we. Just. Tate. Tell her I’m Tate.” She purses her lips like she has more questions but knows not to ask and he thanks her mentally for her tact.
He follows her to the room and waits outside. When she comes out and motions for him to come in, he only lets himself hesitate for half a second before he’s pushing through the door and letting his eyes land on the love of his life. If he believed in the sort of nonsense, he would say his soulmate. And there she was, lying in a hospital bed, bandaged up and looking like she’s seen better days. Which he knows she has; can recall them vividly. Seeing her is every amazing moment down to the worst ones they’ve ever shared. He can feel the emotions raging in him trying to peek out but concern has won it’s way to the surface before any of the others realized it was a race.
“Tipper??” he asks it like he doesn’t know. Like he isn’t sure that he’s actually allowed to communicate with her. Their eyes meet and his legs lock, forcing him still. He feels paralyzed under her gaze. The love of his life, in a hospital bed. “Are you-,” he starts. Stops. Tries again. “What happened?” Where have you been without me? “Are you okay?” Have you been happier without me?
