Chapter 16
Connor
The dream wakes me. The same dream as always, just a different version of it.
I’m in the ICU, lying flat on my back. The mattress is a little too hard beneath me, the pillow a little too high under my head.
Cardiac monitors and infusion pumps hum, hiss, and beep, but it’s quiet otherwise.
Instead of being in a normal color or even black and white, everything I see is washed out.
Faded like the cover of a vintage record or a print that’s been left in the sun for too long.
Bright colors like reds and oranges are nonexistent.
Shadows and dark things are bathed in shades of blue instead of black.
As always, I’m tired and in pain in the dream. Every breath is a struggle. Every beat of my heart is uncertain. Life hangs in the balance. A knife-edge dripping with the unknown.
Usually, the dream starts like this and follows iterations of what really happened.
I dream of the people who came to see me when I couldn’t speak, and I see the faces of those who cried for me when I couldn’t open my eyes.
I dream of the nurses who took care of me, and the things doctors said to my parents when they didn’t think I could hear them.
“A few weeks at best.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I had better news.”
“A week, maybe more, maybe less.”
This time, the dream is set in the time after.
When I was out of surgery and awake. I was weighed down.
Drugged and sedated. A heavy weight crushing me.
My chest was on fire, my sternum ripped open and sewn back together.
My heartbeat was glaringly obvious to me.
Strong and loud. Louder than the beeps and the hums I was used to.
Steady and certain. A new drum that beat to its own rhythm.
My ribs ached when I inhaled, but breathing was easy. My heart was heavy and light at the same time. Bruised and so swollen that my rib cage could barely contain it.
Mine but not mine.
A big heart. Tight and uncomfortable. Too big for my chest.
I sit up in the dark, still groggy, and reach for the glass of water on my nightstand. The glass is cold and solid in my hand. Real. I take a sip of water and swallow. The cool liquid soothes me, trickling down my throat and gradually easing me out of the dream world and into reality.
It’s over.
It’s done. I’m here, and I’m fine.
Lennon comes stumbling out of his room at around nine.
He looks like hell. His version of it, anyway.
Believe me, his version of looking like hell is far from hellish.
His hair is disheveled, standing up at the back, and his eyes are bleary.
Blue chalk that’s been smudged over a wet surface.
There’s a slight hint of bewilderment in the whites of his eyes when he sees me.
Almost as though he wasn’t expecting me to be here.
Or, he wasn’t expecting himself to be here.
“You good, bud?” I check.
“Yes,” he says quickly and with just enough force to sound defensive.
Strange.
Last night was strange too. At times, he was easy to be with, and I thought he might be showing signs of thawing, but at others, he was even more intense than he was the day we met.
There was so much emotion coming off him, I couldn’t place half of it.
I admit I cocked dinner up badly. That shit was inedible, and that probably didn’t help things, but I don’t think that was the problem. If anything, he seemed to enjoy it. It was almost as though he was pleased I’d failed at something.
I thought we’d chill in front of the TV and get to know each other a little better after dinner, but he excused himself suddenly. I don’t know what darkened his mood. Nothing notable happened. He just suddenly seemed out of sorts and fled.
I’d love to say all this gives me pause or makes me wonder if I did the right thing offering him the room, but it doesn’t. Even now, as I watch him crashing around the kitchen making coffee in a bad temper, I feel a sense of certainty so strong it’s almost eerie.
Intuition.
An inner voice.
A heart song with only two words.
It’s him.
When he’s found the mugs and poured his coffee, he takes a sip and eyes me suspiciously over the rim of the mug.
“How long have you been up?” he says. A slight snarl in his words makes it seem more like an accusation than a question.
He’s wearing a black tank and blue sleep pants. The top is snug and the pants slung low on his hips. He looks about as good as anyone has ever looked in the history of mornings.
“Since six twenty-two,” I reply.
“That’s oddly specific.” He doesn’t roll his eyes exactly, but he comes close.
“I wake up early every day to watch the sun rise. It came up at six twenty-eight this morning. I give myself a few minutes to grab a coffee and get up to the roof. The view from up there is amazing.” I’m not sure why, but my morning routine appears to annoy him quite a bit.
I don’t mind. It’s the best part of my day, and I’m not apologizing for it. “You’ll have to join me sometime.”
His top lip curls into a scowl. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
I chuckle and pour myself a glass of water.
“You’ll be up there with me in no time,” I tell him.
“Won’t be long before you’re thanking me for dragging you out there.
I’ll give you this weekend off because you’re still settling in, but next weekend, I’ll wake you, and you can check it out with me. How’s that sound?”
He blinks hard twice. “It sounds like hell. That’s what it sounds like.”
I tell him a few more times that he’ll enjoy it, and he assures me he won’t. It’s nice. Casual banter that sets him at ease, whether he knows it or not.
I get my pill organizer out of the cabinet and a tub of yogurt out of the fridge. I have to move around Lennon to get to the spoons, and there’s something nice about that too. He anticipates my movements, and we move around each other like people who’ve known each other a lot longer than we have.
“Want some toast?” he offers as he pops a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.
“Sure. Thanks.”
I stand with my back to the counter and lean my head forward slightly. I take one tablet at a time and alternate between taking one big sip and two small sips of water with each one. When I’ve downed five or six, I eat a spoonful of yogurt.
The entire time, he watches me without saying a word.
I have a hard time reading his emotions. There are a lot of them, and none of them is what I expect to see. Usually, people are curious when they see me taking my meds. They have questions or concerns. He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know where to look but can’t look away.
Shit. Maybe he has a thing about sick people?