Chapter Seven: Love Thyself

by Taylor Anne Vigil

When you grow up convinced you’re hard to love, kindness can feel like a lie. It takes time — real time — to believe someone might see your broken pieces and not flinch.

This chapter is where things get quieter, but heavier. Where the body aches and the heart speaks. Where care shows up in microwaved soup, midnight medicine hunts, and the simple, aching bravery of staying beside someone who’s hurting.

Taylor peels back another layer here — not just of TJ, but of herself. What do you do when your instinct is to run from love, even as you’re offering it to someone else?

You’ll feel it. You might cry. You might remember what it’s like to care so deeply that you forget to rest. And you might finally, finally, start to understand why this story is called The Promise Keeper.

– Kendra

The Promise Keeper

Chapter Seven: Love Thyself

We were watching Southpaw, a powerful, tear-jerking film about a fighter struggling to keep his daughter out of foster care, when I learned about TJ’s son.

It wasn’t the scene where the fighter sat sobbing in a pool of his wife’s blood that made TJ tear up. It wasn’t even the part where he drove his car into a wall in an attempt to take his own life.

It was the court scene.

A father and daughter, arms outstretched, torn apart by law and circumstance. Her voice strangled by heartbreak—“I wanna live with you!”

That was the moment that hit him.

I heard him inhale. Saw him shift. He cleared his throat, trying to steady himself.

“My son said those same words when me and his mom split up,” he said quietly.

I turned to him. His eyes flicked from the television to me, then back again. He ran a hand over his nose and mouth, dragging it slowly down through his goatee like he was grounding himself.

“His mom was kicking me out of the house,” he went on, “and he didn’t want me to go. He was holding me and crying and…”

He trailed off.

TJ wasn’t in the living room anymore.

He was back there—holding his little boy, comforting him, hearing those words all over again.

I watched him stare at the screen, but his focus was gone. His grief, so near the surface, settled into the space between us like fog. And for a second, I felt it too.

The loss. The ache. The helplessness.

“C-can I g-give you a hug?” I asked, my voice soft.

He turned to me and smiled, warm and open. “Of course you can. You don’t have to ask.”

He held out his arm, and I leaned into him, wrapping my arms around him tight.

“You’re sweet,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

He pulled back and looked at me—eyes glassy behind his lenses, the flicker of emotion still visible in the television’s glow.

I rested my hand gently on his arm, offering what little comfort I could.

“I’m okay,” he said, patting my hand. “Promise.”

Then he stood, cleared his throat again, and disappeared into the kitchen.

When he returned, he was holding a beer. He popped the tab and drank deep.

I wasn’t paying attention to the movie anymore.

My eyes lingered on the empty wine glass on the side table. He’d already had two.

It was the first night of many when I watched TJ do what he later called weightlifting.

Normally, I’d rise from the couch in the front room, bathed in late morning sunlight, and wander into the kitchen to make my coffee. Mug in hand, I’d join TJ on the living room couch, where he’d be sipping from his own cup.

But soon, that changed.

Soon, TJ was the one making my coffee—bringing it to me before I even slid out from under the blankets.

He’d taken the air mattress because of his bad back. I could hear it groan in the next room as he rolled off it in the morning, his steps soft as he shuffled to the kitchen. I smelled the coffee brewing before I even opened my eyes.

Then, he’d appear—mug in hand, smile in place.

“Good morning,” he’d say, offering me the cup like it was a sacred thing.

It was more than just a sweet gesture.

It was a sign that TJ didn’t just see me—he noticed me.

He was paying attention.

And before long, I found myself doing the same.

I noticed the limp when he brought me my coffee.

“Are y-y-you okay?” I asked, taking the mug gently from his hands.

He hesitated, slightly confused, before his eyebrows rose in recognition.

“Oh—yeah. I’m fine. It’s just my knee,” he said, gesturing toward his leg. “It hurts sometimes after a day of work.”

My eyes dropped to his knee, then back to my coffee, remembering how hard he’d worked on the yard the day before. I took a sip.

“H-have you t-t-taken anything for it?”

“Nah,” he said, waving the question away. “I don’t take painkillers much. They make my head feel… fuzzy. I can handle it. I’ll be fine.”

But as the day wore on, his limp got worse.

Even so, he kept at it. Working through the pain. Trimming, hauling, raking—getting the yard looking picture-perfect for Derek and Alisha.

While I played outside with the kids, I kept glancing over. Watching him.

And wondering why he always had to be so damn strong.

Later that evening, I sat curled up on the couch, worn out from the day, when TJ finally came inside. He limped more noticeably now, barely putting weight on his leg. He eased himself onto the couch with a soft wince and rubbed his kneecap like he was trying to coax the pain away.

It reminded me of childhood growing pains—those endless nights I spent in bed, wide-eyed and teary, waiting for the ache in my knees and elbows to pass.

“W-would you like an ice pack?” I asked quietly.

“Huh?” He looked up from his leg.

“For your knee.”

He paused, rubbing it again.

“Nah,” he said with a small smile. “Thanks though. I’m okay, really. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

To prove it, he stood and walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water.

I rolled my eyes and smirked.

Typical.

He returned, sat back down, rubbed his knee again. I got up, filled a Ziplock bag with ice, and wrapped it in a towel from the hall closet. When I came back, I held it out to him.

He raised a hand. “I’m fine.”

“Too late!” I grinned, placing it into his hand. “Take it. Please?”

“Fine!” he said in mock exasperation, setting the ice pack on his knee. “Since you asked sooo nicely.”

I sat down beside him and flicked on the TV.

After a few minutes, he let out a satisfied sigh and shifted slightly to face me.

“Y’know, this actually helps a lot.” He adjusted the pack with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

I smiled back.

He’d helped me through so much already.

This—this was the least I could do.

The next day wasn’t any easier for TJ.

I walked into the living room to find him slumped over on the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Concern bloomed instantly in my chest. I quickened my steps and sat beside him, gently resting a hand on his back. He glanced up.

“Oh, hey.”

His voice was off.

Too deep. Too strained.

It didn’t take long to figure out why.

He was in pain.

“What hurts?” I asked, already half-prepared to leap up and grab whatever he needed.

“It’s nothing,” he said, holding my gaze. “Just my head.”

That was my cue.

I headed straight to the kitchen and fixed him an ice pack—same as the day before. This time, he didn’t brush it off. He took it with quiet gratitude.

We sat together for a while, him leaning back with the ice held to his forehead, me watching him with a mixture of worry and relief.

“You don’t mind if I lay down, do you?” he asked.

His posture sagged, his eyelids heavy.

“Of course not,” I said, lowering my voice instinctively, trying not to make the ache worse.

I started to get up, assuming I’d head to the front room where my brother was gaming, when TJ surprised me.

“You don’t have to go,” he said gently. “You can stay.”

He stood, retrieved a pillow from the hall closet, and returned. I scooted over, expecting him to curl up the way he usually did when napping on the couch. He always left space for someone to sit.

But this time was different.

He didn’t tuck the pillow against the armrest.

He rested it against my leg.

“This is okay, right? I just don’t want my stinky feet to be facing you,” he said with a faint smile.

I nodded.

Maybe it was about the feet. Or maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe he was seeking comfort, closeness—connection.

Maybe having me there helped ease the pain, even just a little.

He lay down slowly, settling the ice pack against his head.

“Thank you,” he murmured, the words soft but sincere. “Let’s watch Avatar.”

I smiled.

As the Netflix remake of Avatar: The Last Airbender played, TJ’s breathing evened out. The ice pack began to slide from his hand.

He was asleep.

I reached down and gently took the pack, setting it beside me. I rose quietly, careful not to wake him, and fetched his favorite blanket from the closet.

Softly, I draped it over him, making sure it covered his knees and feet where they hung slightly off the couch. Then I reclaimed my seat and repositioned his pillow so it still rested against my leg. I held the ice pack in place for him.

He slept undisturbed.

I smiled as his hand—once gripping the pack—slid down to his cheek in his sleep.

It was the closest I’d ever been to him.

Close enough to feel how soft his hair was, to smell the clean scent of his shampoo and deodorant.

And something about that closeness tugged at me.

I wanted to inch even closer.

But I didn’t.

I stayed still.

Some things were better left untouched.

About half an hour passed before he stirred, waking with a soft groan and an immediate apology.

He sat up, rubbed his hands over his face, and looked at me.

“What’d I miss?”

I smiled. “The Earth Kingdom. Ang and the others are in the tunnels now—trying to escape.”

He blinked a few times, then looked down.

“Did you cover me up?” he asked, eyes falling to the blanket draped across his lap.

“I did,” I said, trying not to grin too hard.

He stared at the blanket, then turned to me with the smallest smile.

“Aww, you’re so sweet. Thank you.”

I blushed. His voice was still too soft.

“H-how’s your h-head?” I asked gently.

He exhaled, leaning back. “It still hurts. Honestly… a little worse now.”

A knot of helplessness twisted in my chest.

Without a word, I stood and walked to the kitchen to make another ice pack.

“Aww,” he said again. “You didn’t have to do that.”

I handed it over with a soft smile.

“Anything for you.”

He smiled back.

We sat quietly together until Derek walked in from the garage.

“TJ, I need your hel—” He paused.

His eyes fell on TJ, who now had his head leaned back against the couch, eyes half-closed in discomfort.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked.

There was something different in his voice.

Concern.

Derek rarely showed emotion. A quiet, tough truck driver with a naturally stern presence, he wasn’t someone who wore softness easily. But in that moment, it showed.

TJ opened his eyes and looked up, his expression tired.

“You sick?” Derek asked again, more gently this time.

“Nah, man,” TJ said, straightening slightly. “Just got a killer headache. What do you need?”

Derek hesitated, then explained the car issue. TJ listened, set the ice pack aside, and stood to follow him into the garage.

I wanted to stop him.

To reach for his hand and make him stay.

But I didn’t.

I just watched him go, admiration blooming in my chest.

Even in pain, he still showed up.

That was TJ.

Always showing up. Even at his own expense.

Minutes passed. The sounds from the garage filtered through the closed door—metal clanging, tools whirring. Then came the machine. The one I hated. The one that screamed when they worked on tires.

I imagined TJ using it, imagined his head pounding with every vibration.

How did he stand it?

When he returned, I startled—like I’d said the thought out loud.

His hand was pressed to his forehead.

I stood instinctively, reaching for the half-melted ice pack beside me, but he waved me off and walked to the closet.

I heard the familiar rattle of a pill bottle.

He returned and flopped down onto the couch with a half-smile.

“I’m giving in,” he said, opening his palm to reveal two painkillers.

“You’re finally giving in, huh?” I teased.

He took a sip of water and swallowed the pills. “Yeah, I can’t take it anymore.”

He set the glass down and leaned back with a sigh, turning his head slightly to look at me.

“See? I’m not that stubborn.”

I gave him a playful shove. “Don’t lie!”

He laughed softly.

I took a deep breath and mirrored his ease.

“I-I hope th-that helps.”

“It will,” he said, smiling sweetly.

And within the hour, he was himself again.

Smiling. Joking. Moving with ease.

But that night…

His body would betray him again.

We were still watching Avatar when I noticed it—first in the sound before the sight.

TJ’s breathing was off. Quick, shallow, shaky.

I turned toward him.

“You okay?” I asked, taking a steadying breath.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Just a little cold.”

A shaky, nervous laugh slipped out of him.

“Want a blanket?”

He shook his head.

I turned my eyes back to the screen, trying to focus. But when I looked again, he was curled tighter, shivering harder. Soft, barely audible sounds of distress escaped his lips.

The urge to hold him overtook me. To press myself against him and lend him warmth. But I stayed still.

What would my brother say if he walked in and saw us like that? What would Alisha or Derek think?

So I stayed where I was, heart aching.

I scooted closer and touched his arm. Goosebumps tightened his skin.

I got up and found the warmest blanket I could. He snatched it from my hands with trembling fingers, wrapping it tightly around himself.

“God, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I don’t kn-ow what’s w-wrong with me.”

I reached out and touched his forehead.

Unlike his arm, it was hot.

“You have a fever,” I said, unable to hide the alarm in my voice.

His expression shifted—surprise.

“R-really?” he asked, clutching the blanket tighter. “Th-that explains the ch-ills.”

He laughed again, quiet and forced.

On the screen, Earthbenders and Fire Nation soldiers clashed. But in the space between us, a different kind of battle was unfolding.

“F-fuck, man,” TJ whispered, his body tensing again. “I c-can’t get w-warm.”

He looked at me, ashamed.

“I’m s-sorry. I’ve gotta lay down. I’m s-so fu-cking cold.”

He didn’t wait for permission.

The air mattress was already inflated—he threw himself onto it like it was a lifeboat, yanking the blanket over his body and curling into himself.

But sleep didn’t come.

His body shook in waves, soft grunts escaping through clenched teeth as he fought to stay still.

“G-goodn-night,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Watching him like that—shivering, helpless—was like watching someone drown.

The urge to hold him came back stronger. I wanted to crawl under the blanket and pull him to me, to knot our hands together and press him against my chest until he was warm again.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I brought him another blanket. Then another.

Still he shook.

I returned with a third. Finally, his body began to settle.

His breaths slowed. His fists relaxed. Sleep came.

I gathered my pillow and blanket from the front room and curled up on the couch beside him.

But sleep refused me.

My mind spun.

What if his fever got worse? What if it spiked too high? What if he couldn’t keep water down? What if we needed to take him in and he couldn’t handle the drive? What if—

I knew, even then, the fear was irrational.

But that didn’t stop it from growing teeth.

What I feared most wasn’t the fever.

It was losing him.

I sat upright, debating whether or not to put a cold cloth to his head.

No—he’s finally asleep. Don’t wake him now.

But something pushed at me.

Compassion?

Anxiety?

Love?

I couldn’t sit idle.

He’d helped me. I had to help him.

I began to search—bathroom, kitchen, my brother’s office—for medication.

Ibuprofen helps with fevers… right?

My vision blurred with fatigue. The flashlight on my phone barely cut through the haze. My left eye was dark, blind. My right was weak and strained. The light TJ had given me would’ve helped, but it might’ve woken him.

Frustration bit at my resolve.

I wanted to quit.

But then I heard his voice in my head.

Breathe. Just stop what you’re doing and take a long deep breath. Then start again.

I obeyed.

I stood in the center of the house, took a breath, and backtracked to the front room.

There—on my brother’s desk—between the gaming headset and one of the girls’ drawings, was a bottle.

I squinted.

Ibuprofen.

Relief bloomed in my chest.

I grabbed it, filled a water bottle, and tiptoed back to TJ. I placed both beside him gently, then lay back down on the couch.

Still, I couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t relax. It was that I wouldn’t let myself.

Some part of me was terrified that if I let go, something awful would happen.

I groaned and got up again, making my way to the dimly lit kitchen. My hands braced against the cool tile countertop. I glanced at the dishwasher—still full.

Without thinking, I began to empty it.

It was the least I could do for Penny—Alisha’s mom—who cooked for us every night despite her chronic migraines.

I worked quietly, methodically. When I closed the dishwasher, I felt something I hadn’t felt in hours.

Pride.

Just a little.

I gave myself a silent pat on the back and returned to the couch.

I stayed up the rest of the night.

I played on my phone. Wrote a little. Checked on him.

At four a.m., he stirred.

I slid off the couch and crouched beside him, checking his forehead, his cheek, his neck.

Cooler. Not perfect, but better.

“What are you still doing up?” he asked sleepily. “You should be asleep.”

“I brought you ibuprofen,” I said, lifting the bottle. “And some water.”

He took the water gratefully, nearly downing the whole bottle. He declined the pills.

I listened closely as he walked to the bathroom, ears sharp for any sign of vomiting.

Nothing.

He came back with a damp towel tied around his head and lay back down.

“You sure?” I asked again, offering the pills.

“I’ll be okay,” he said, voice muffled by the pillow. “I can sleep it off. Don’t worry.”

I gave him a look.

God, he was stubborn.

I never told him how long I’d searched for that bottle.

I just smiled, crawled back onto the couch, and accepted my quiet defeat.

“Get some rest,” TJ said, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

And finally…

We did.

“Did you stay up all night last night?” TJ asked as I handed him his coffee.

He sounded awful—congested, stuffy, worn thin.

“I-I-I did,” I admitted, a little guilty but unsure why. “I w-was worried about y-y-you, so I—”

TJ brought a closed fist to his mouth, overtaken by a harsh coughing fit.

He hadn’t gotten dressed. He hadn’t even combed his hair like he usually did. He sat slouched on the couch in the same loose-fitting shorts and muscle shirt he’d slept in.

Secretly, I was glad he was giving himself a day off.

Also secretly… the muscle shirt wasn’t a bad look.

I sat down beside him.

“You sound h-h-h-h—”

“Horrible?” he finished, flashing me a wry smile. “Thanks. I feel like shit.”

That smile made me want to reach out. Touch his shoulder. Brush back the soft curl above his ear.

Instead, I swallowed the urge.

“C-c–an I-I—”

“Do anything?” he offered, sipping his coffee.

Normally, I’d hate being interrupted mid-sentence. But not with TJ.

He always read me like a page he’d memorized. Always knew what I needed before I said a word.

He set the mug down and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it behind his ear.

“Nah, I’m alright. You go start your day.”

I nodded and went to take my shower. Got dressed. Brushed my teeth.

Refreshed, I walked past him into the kitchen and started making brunch. I laid everything out—pot, spoon, and a pack of shrimp-flavored ramen. As the water boiled, I heard TJ cough again—deep, from the chest. I winced at the sound.

Had he eaten yet? Was he nauseous?

I remembered something he once told me during a drive:

“It didn’t matter how she was feeling. My Ma made me a home-cooked meal every night without fail.”

I looked at the noodles. Maybe not quite homemade, but still warm. Still made with intention.

I texted him:

  How’s your stomach? Hungry?

He replied:

  I actually would like some soup. If you don’t mind.

I smiled.

He accepted the steaming bowl with a grateful grin.

To him, it wasn’t just ramen.

It was memory. It was comfort. It was love, ladled through nostalgia.

Exactly what I’d hoped it would be.

“She stayed up all night watching over me,” TJ said later, telling the rest of the household.

I shrank a little into the couch, unsure what to do with all the attention.

It was true.

So why was it so hard to feel proud of it?

Why couldn’t I own the care I’d given?

“Wanna watch Avatar?” TJ asked, lifting the remote. “Or have you had enough?”

I wanted to speak. I really did.

I didn’t want to text my answer.

I opened my mouth, but the words caught.

Again.

A breath. Still nothing. My chest tightened. My skin flushed with heat.

The shame crawled back.

“Hey. Look at me,” TJ said gently.

I looked up from my lap.

He saw me—really saw me.

“Grace,” he whispered.

I shivered at the softness of it.

“Give yourself grace. Text it to me.”

I picked up my phone, but my fingers hovered.

I’d forgotten the original question. Forgotten the episode. Forgotten everything but the pressure in my throat and the spinning in my mind.

Stress. Anxiety. Sleep. Triggers.

And worst of all—the self-hate that always came with it.

The words poured from me like a spill I couldn’t stop:

  Why did God make me this way, TJ? Why me? Why?

When I looked up, he was closer—so close our shoulders almost touched.

“It’s okay,” he said softly.

That’s what he always said when I cried.

“It’s okay to not be okay.”

He inhaled slowly, like he was searching for the right words. His voice softened even more.

“Who gave me an ice pack, even when I said I didn’t need one? Who hugged me when I told you about my son?”

He pointed at me.

“You did that.”

I blinked through tears.

He shifted on the couch so he could face me fully.

“This is what I try to do,” he said. “I say, ‘Yes, I have anxiety. And it fucking sucks. But I’m still an amazing person. I hate seeing people struggle. I want to help. I want to do something when people are hurting. Even if I can’t fix it, I want to be there.’”

I realized slowly—he wasn’t talking about himself.

He was talking about me.

My tears had dried. He kept going.

“Think about how many ways you’ve helped me in the last seventy-two hours. Focus on that.”

He placed his hand on my knee. Gave it a gentle squeeze.

“You’re so much more than your stutter.”

Those words echoed in my head all day.

And I started making a list.

I’d refused to take no for an answer when he needed an ice pack.

I’d let him rest his head on my leg and covered him with his favorite blanket.

I’d found him medicine when I could barely see.

I’d emptied the dishwasher for Penny. She hugged me and thanked me for it.

I’d made him soup—not fancy, not homemade, but warm, and filled with the memory of his mother.

I’d stayed up all night. Not just to check on him.

To show him I cared.

And in doing all of that, I started to see the truth:

I’m a good person.

I have a kind, giving heart.

I have no reason to hate myself.

Not for my stutter. Not for my fear.

Not for being the way I am.

TJ showed me that.

And maybe… maybe it’s time I told him about the rest.

The other stories.

The other scars.

The ones I’ve never let anyone see.