Chapter 6 #3
“What did they say?”
“Rehabilitation apartment. My sister’s place. Assisted place.”
Each option struck me differently.
I kept my voice even.
“Those are reasonable.”
“And your place.”
I looked at him.
He opened his eye.
“The apartment over the yard.”
“Yes.”
“They said it’s my legal address.”
“It is.”
“That my things are there.”
“Yes.”
“And Marlowe.”
“Yes.”
His toes moved through the grass.
“They said I could choose.”
“You can.”
“What do you want?”
The honest answer was too large.
“I want you safe.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
I looked toward the hospital windows.
“I want you home.”
“With you.”
“Yes.”
“Because of before.”
“Because I love you.”
He absorbed that without flinching.
“And because the apartment is familiar to your body, even if your mind can’t reach it. Because the yard is downstairs. Because Marlowe is there. Because I know your medications and appointments.”
“You’ve made a list.”
“Several.”
His mouth moved.
“Of course.”
“But none of that means you owe me the choice.”
He studied me.
“If I go to Leah’s, she’d have to take leave she can’t afford. The girls have school.”
“Yes.”
“The rehabilitation place has people.”
“Trained people.”
“I don’t know them.”
“You didn’t know me two weeks ago.”
“No.”
The simple answer tightened my throat.
Noah looked down at his foot.
“I still don’t know you from before.”
“I know.”
“I wish I did.”
The wind lifted the edge of the blanket.
I tucked it back.
Noah watched my hands.
“It hurts you when I say that.”
“Yes.”
“You always tell the truth?”
“I try.”
“Were you always like this?”
“No.”
“What changed?”
“You.”
His expression became wary.
I regretted the answer.
“Not because you fixed me,” I added. “You didn’t. You expected me to be honest, even when honesty was inconvenient.”
“Did we fight about that?”
“Often.”
“Who won?”
“Usually you.”
“That doesn’t sound believable.”
“You were relentless.”
He looked toward the grass again.
“I remember Denver.”
“I know.”
“I remember why I left.”
The air shifted.
We had spoken only briefly about that part of his life.
“The men at work,” I said.
His jaw tightened.
“I remember watching every word. Every look. I remember knowing they’d turn on me if they knew.”
I waited.
“I remember someone writing something on my truck.”
“Yes.”
“I remember thinking I was done trusting people.”
His gaze lifted to mine.
“You said I trusted you.”
“You did.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
I considered.
“Maybe because I never asked you to pretend.”
He went quiet.
“You used to say you could breathe at the yard,” I continued. “That no one was waiting for you to make a mistake so they could use it against you.”
“Did you know right away?”
“That you were gay?”
He nodded.
“I suspected.”
“How?”
“You looked at me.”
A faint flush touched his face.
“That’s embarrassing.”
“It was flattering.”
“Did you look back?”
“Constantly.”
He almost smiled.
Then his brow tightened.
“I don’t know you,” he said. “But I keep waiting for you.”
My heart beat once, hard.
“What do you mean?”
“In the mornings.”
He rubbed his thumb over the blanket.
“I know when you come. The hallway sounds different. I hear the elevator, and I think it might be you.”
I could not speak.
“When I hurt, I want you there. When the words don’t work, you don’t hurry me. When I wake up and everything’s wrong…” He paused, searching. “You make it less.”
“Less frightening?”
He shook his head.
“Less loud?”
Another small shake.
I waited.
His frustration rose. “There’s a word.”
“We can find it later.”
“No.”
He looked around the courtyard, at the moving branches and the wet grass.
“Still,” he said finally. “You make me feel still.”
The words entered me slowly.
Not love.
Not memory.
Something new.
“I don’t know why,” he said.
“You don’t need to.”
“I trust you.”
I lowered my gaze because my eyes had filled.
Noah noticed.
“You’re doing it again.”
“I know.”
“Crying because I say normal things.”
“That wasn’t normal to me.”
He looked almost pleased.
“Can I ask something?”
“Anything.”
“If I go home with you, what happens?”
I drew a slow breath.
“The occupational therapist will inspect the apartment. We’ll move the bedroom downstairs if the stairs aren’t safe.”
“There is no downstairs bedroom.”
“There’s an office beside the workshop.”
“You’d put me in your office?”
“I’d turn it into a room.”
“Where would you sleep?”
“Upstairs.”
His face tightened.
“Too far.”
He answered before he could think.
We both heard it.
Noah looked startled.
I stayed perfectly still.
He tried again. “I mean, if I need help.”
“I can sleep nearby.”
“Where?”
“On a cot.”
“That sounds awful.”
“I’ve slept in a hospital chair for three weeks.”
“You keep saying that like it’s impressive.”
“It is not.”
He stared at me.
“What was our room like?”
“Small. Windows facing the harbor. The floor slopes.”
“Which side of the bed was mine?”
“The side near the window.”
“Why?”
“You liked the air.”
“And you?”
“I liked being between you and the door.”
His expression changed.
“Why?”
“Habit.”
“From what?”
“Nothing dramatic. I sleep lightly.”
“Did I sleep well?”
“Usually.”
“Did we…” He stopped.
I waited.
“Did we share the bed every night?”
“Yes.”
Color rose in his face.
“I’m not asking about sex.”
“All right.”
“But we did.”
“Yes.”
“Was it good?”
I nearly choked.
Noah’s mouth curved.
“You asked.”
“I didn’t expect an answer that fast.”
“I value accuracy.”
He laughed softly.
The sound settled between us, intimate without history.
“What if I don’t want to share a bed?” he asked.
“You won’t.”
“What if I never do?”
“Then we arrange the house differently.”
“What if it’s strange?”
“It will be.”
“What if I panic?”
“I’ll give you space.”
“What if I need you?”
“I’ll come.”
He looked at me for a long time.
The clouds shifted, and a thin wash of brightness crossed the courtyard.
Noah squinted.
I stood at once.
“Too bright.”
“Yes.”
I lifted his foot back onto the support and replaced the slipper.
“Ready?”
He nodded.
As I wheeled him toward the doors, he said, “The word.”
“What word?”
“Still isn’t right.”
“No?”
He considered.
“Safe.”
My hands stopped on the chair.
Noah turned as far as his injuries allowed.
“You make me feel safe.”
I looked down at him.
The hospital, the courtyard, the entire ruined month narrowed to his face.
“I’m glad,” I said, though the words were barely sound.
We returned through the ward more slowly than necessary.
Near the cafeteria, the smell of fried potatoes drifted into the corridor.
Noah lifted his head.
“Food.”
“You just ate.”
“Hours ago.”
“It was forty minutes.”
“Brain injury.”
“That cannot become your defense for everything.”
“It’s a good defense.”
I bought one portion of fries.
We shared them at a table near the window. Noah ate carefully, eyes drooping with fatigue.
People looked.
This time, I ignored them.
Noah dipped a fry into ketchup.
“Real food.”
“Potatoes are available in the hospital.”
“Not like this.”
“If Priya asks, you ate steamed broccoli.”
“She’ll know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t look like someone who eats broccoli.”
“You used to.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Occasionally.”
“Liar.”
The word came easily.
Familiarity without recollection.
I smiled.
Noah watched me.
“When I leave,” he said, “I want the apartment.”
My heart clenched.
“You’re sure?”
“No.”
The honesty was immediate.
“But I want to try.”
“You can change your mind.”
“I know.”
“I’ll make the downstairs room ready.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I want to see the upstairs.”
“The stairs may not be safe.”
“Then I decide after I see.”
“All right.”
“And Marlowe.”
“He may knock you over.”
“Then hold him.”
“I will.”
Noah rested his head against the wheelchair.
His eye closed.
“So I go with you,” he murmured.
I stared at him.
The words were not a declaration.
They were not the return of vows.
They were a frightened man choosing the place where he felt safest.
It was enough to split my heart open.
I reached across the small table, stopping before I touched him.
Noah opened his eye.
Then he placed his hand in mine.
“You’ll be there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“As close as you want.”
He nodded.
His fingers settled around mine.
Outside the window, the harbor lay beneath a clearing sky, every wet surface catching the weak afternoon light.
Noah did not remember the life we had built above it.
He did not remember choosing the apartment, claiming the window side of the bed, or bringing home an aging dog because he could not leave the shelter without him.
He did not remember loving me.
But when I pushed his wheelchair back toward the ward, his hand remained wrapped around mine.
And when the elevator doors opened, he looked up at me as though he already knew I would be there when they closed again.