Chapter 42
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
A steady, dull thudding echoed in Miles’s brain, but he wasn’t sure if it came from the throbbing pain, the muffled distance the painkillers gave him, or something else. He swallowed hard, his throat thick and dry, and reached blindly for the glass of water on his bedside table.
Wes’ voice echoed distantly, as if through a tunnel, and a higher voice, as well.
Jif, his addled brain supplied.
Wasn’t she supposed to be at her brother’s gala?
He drank several greedy swallows, half propped on one elbow, then put the glass back, catching sight of the red-lit clock as he did so.
Almost one in the morning.
He must be imagining the voices.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’d hallucinated on the high-powered painkillers the doctors liked to prescribe for his injuries.
His injuries. He closed his eyes, and though his hand strayed toward his thigh, he refused to let his fingers trace the rippled scars or poke the most tender spots, though they returned again and again, like a lodestone, to the site of his failure.
“Miles!” Jif’s voice cut through the fuzziness in his head.
He struggled to prop himself up on the pillows.
“What happened?”
On her heels, Wes came into his room. “I told you...”
“Iss okay, Wes,” he slurred, twisting his thickened tongue around syllables that didn’t want to come out correctly. “Iss the middle o’the night. G’back to bed.”
“You sure?” Wes glanced between Jif and Miles.
Miles’s head bobbled unsteadily on his shoulders, an approximation of a nod, but enough to reassure his best friend.
He should have called Jif right away. Or called her back. Or texted. Something. Anything. Her barging in like this shouldn’t surprise him, all things considered. If he had the strength or presence of mind to consider. Which he really didn’t.
He’d made such a mess of things.
Jif sank to the edge of his bed, and the warmth of her fingers as she curled his hand into both of hers pushed away some of the fog and pain.
Despite the late hour, she still stole his breath, her long hair draped over one shoulder, slightly tousled—probably from dancing the night away.
The blush pink satin of her dress—his favorite—peeked out from the lapels of her long, light coat, almost unnecessary, even in the dead of night, with the heat and humidity of July swirling like a swamp around them.
“I figured...” she began, then stopped. “I thought... When you weren’t there tonight, I got worried.”
Tonight. Last night? Her event. He’d promised to go.
How could he have forgotten?
“Sorry,” he mumbled. He hated that he’d disappointed her, but maybe now she’d understand he’d never be able to do anything else.
“Stop it,” she hissed at him, squeezing his hand. “You’re not a disappointment.”
Had he said those words out loud?
“What happened? Your CPAT...”
“I failed.” He gritted his teeth, forcing the words out.
“You’ll try again. You’ll get stronger.”
He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can.” She cupped his cheek, and he pressed into the warmth of her touch. His own, personal sunshine, a ray of light in the dark. But, no. She had her own darkness to battle. She shouldn’t have to fight his, too.
He wished Wes would have stayed, after all. He could explain it to Jif and let Miles sleep. In oblivion, he didn’t have to face reality.
His eyes drifted closed.
“Tell me,” Jif whispered, still cupping his cheek. “If you don’t tell me, I can’t help you.”
His eyes popped open at the thread of pity in her voice. “I don’t need you to help me.”
Her hand fell away, and though he struggled to focus, the sheen and blur in her eyes couldn’t be from the painkillers in his system.
“Okay, then I’ll sit with you until you’re ready to talk.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I know.” She smiled. The real one that lit up the whole room. “But then you won’t be alone.”
Before he could argue, she stood and dragged a chair across the floor until she’d situated it next to the bed.
“Your dress...” he slurred.
“I’ll be fine. Sleep.”
He didn’t want to. He didn’t want her to stay, either, his lowest point defining how she’d forever remember him, but his eyelids slid closed, heavier than the shoulder weights he’d carried during the CPAT, exhausted oblivion as inexorable as the steps on the stair climber, dragging him under.
When they fluttered open again, daylight shone through the windows, and the space beside him held nothing but a cold divot in the blankets.
Wes bustled in carrying a tray, Nix trailing behind him. “You’re awake. Good. Ready for another dose?”
Miles groaned as he struggled to sit upright, pain spiraling through his leg, the edges of his vision going blurry and spotting with sparkles.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Food first, though. If you throw up another dose, you won’t have enough to make it to your appointment on Tuesday.”
Wes set the tray with Miles’s breakfast—lunch? —on his lap, a bowl of soup, a bottle of Gatorade, and two white pills.
Nix leaped onto the bed, tilting everything dangerously.
Miles hissed, his muscles tightening automatically to brace his body against the moving mattress.
Wes snatched the tray back, saving Miles from hot water burns on top of all his other injuries. “No, Nix. Off!”
Miles swallowed hard, biting back an exclamation, and patted the bed. “It’s okay. Down, boy. Nix, down.”
Nix settled gingerly, every line of his body stiff as he kept his head erect, a canine sphinx. His lips wrinkled, and he yawned.
“Easy there,” Miles reassured him, pressing gently at his shoulder until he flopped into a more relaxed position, half on his side, far enough away he wouldn’t jostle Miles accidentally. “I’m okay, boy.”
He glanced up at Wes, who settled the tray on his lap again.
“You’re not.”
Embarrassingly, tears leapt to Miles’s eyes. He clenched his hands, then opened them again. “Where’s Jif?”
Wes perched himself on the edge of the bed. “Went home to shower. I offered yours, but she said you probably didn’t have ‘micellar water,’ whatever that is.”
“She stayed all night?”
“She wants answers.”
His eyes burned, and his throat closed. “What am I supposed to tell her?”
“The truth. That’s what you always say, anyway.”
“She’ll leave.” He couldn’t muster more than a whisper.
Wes stood, smoothing the sheets. “She’s not Tessa.”
No, she wasn’t, but would that matter?