“I’m sorry, Mum,” he said after a while.

“For what?” I pulled the scarf I was knitting out of my purse and tried to get my hands situated on the needles. It didn’t matter how many years had passed since Peg had taught me to knit, I still couldn’t do anything more intricate than a long piece of fabric.

“For all this.”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“I’m not. I know this sucks for you. You hate hospitals.”

“Everyone hates hospitals.”

“You hate them more than most people.”

“That can’t really be determined, can it? I mean, who are these ‘most’ people. How many is a ‘most’? I mean, some people only go to hospitals when babies are born, so they don’t really count—”

“Christ on a cracker, Mum! Could you shut up?”

“If I have to.”

“You have to.”

“Fine.”

We were silent again while I stewed, but I knew at any moment he would once again bring it up. He’d never been able to stay quiet unless it was on his own terms. We could eat an entire dinner with no words spoken, but if he wanted to say something and I asked him to be quiet? He could not hold that shit in.

“I’m just sorry I scared you, and that you’ve had to be here with me all day.”

I continued to knit quietly.

“You can talk.”

“Oh, can I?”

“Stop being an ass.”

“First, let’s get one thing straight,” I said, dropping my knitting to my lap and turning to face him. “You can’t control what other people do, therefore you couldn’t control whether or not you’d be in the hospital at this particular juncture.”

“You’ve been reading again. I can tell by the words you’re using.”

“Second,” I raised my voice above his, “I would rather be with you—even in this smelly ass hospital—than anywhere else on earth.”

“Fair enough.”

“I’m always fair… and right.”

“I’m going to sleep, okay?”

“Having your buds come to visit tired you out, huh?”

“They’re cool, right?” he asked, closing his eyes. I felt bad for him, because I knew he’d never be comfortable on his back. My kid was a stomach sleeper, always had been.

“Yeah, and good looking.”

“Shut up.”

“Did you see Casper’s eyes? Good Lord.”

“Mum.”

“And Dragon, with that long hair? Jesus. I think I need to read a historical romance novel soon… I know who the mighty brave will be.”

“I’m going to vomit.”

“Don’t even get me started on Grease.”

“I’ve been trying to stop you for five minutes.”

“Muscles,” I sang.

“You’re insane.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too… most of the time.”

I smiled to myself as I picked up my knitting again, listening to my son breathe. The noise on the monitors was extra, the heart monitor more of a nuisance than anything, but when I heard him breathing just a few feet away, it made me feel like all was right in the world again.

“His eyes are incredible,” he murmured sleepily before nodding off.

***

Patrick and the boys never made it back to the hospital that night. I finally left Nix’s room at almost midnight and drove straight to the hotel room that Patrick had booked for another night. I’d grabbed some clothes from my apartment during the day while Nix had been resting, and I was so glad I had. Even though I’d planned to sleep in my own bed that night, I couldn’t make myself go that far from the hospital.

Nix was going to be fine. I knew that intellectually. However, emotionally I was still scared out of my mind. I’d almost lost him. If someone hadn’t seen him lying in that parking lot, he could have bled to death.

I had to try and balance my need to be up his ass all the time and the need to get some actual sleep in a bed.

The hotel seemed like a solid middle ground until I walked into the room as Patrick was walking out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but a towel slung around his waist.

“You’re back,” I announced stupidly, letting the door swing shut behind me.

“Didn’t take long, yeah? How’s Nix?”

“He’s good. Mat was staying with him again tonight, so I was going to try and catch some sleep. I’m pretty sure he’s getting sick of me by now, anyway.”

“I doubt dat,” he said, shaking his head as he stepped into a pair of boxer briefs and pulled them up under his towel.

“How—” I cleared my throat as he pulled the towel away, trying to get a hold of myself. “Mums seem to annoy grown sons regularly. There are about a thousand sitcoms based on that very premise.”

“Not yer son,” he argued, drying his beard and hair with the towel. “Yer son t’inks yer de shite.”

“That’s because I am.”

“Ye just made me point.”

“You wear boxer briefs now? When did that happen?” What the fuck was I saying? I didn’t care about his underwear. I didn’t care about it at all.

“What?” he asked in confusion.

“Forget I said that.”

“Ye like me underwear?”