Chapter 21 #3
He tried again.
The angle put too much strain on his hip.
I put one hand beneath his elbow.
“I said I can.”
The sharpness in his voice turned two heads.
I released him immediately.
Noah gripped the doorframe.
On the third attempt, he managed the step and lowered himself into the seat, breathing hard.
I loaded the chair without speaking.
The drive home passed in silence.
Upstairs, I carried the bags into the kitchen.
Noah began unpacking.
Fatigue made his movements clumsy. He placed the spinach in a cabinet, stared at it, swore, and transferred it to the refrigerator.
“Go sit down,” I said gently.
“I’m helping.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“Noah.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He reached for the jar of preserves.
It slipped.
I caught it before it hit the floor.
The sound he made was pure frustration.
“Stop doing that.”
“Catching glass?”
“Everything.”
I placed the jar on the counter.
“Tell me what everything means.”
“Watching me. Correcting me. Carrying things. Tying my shoes. Deciding when I’m tired.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“I know.”
“That does not make the help right if it feels wrong.”
He turned toward me.
Anger brightened his eye.
“I couldn’t get into the car.”
“You did.”
“After three attempts.”
“You still did it.”
“You stood there waiting to rescue me.”
“I stood there because falling could reinjure your hip.”
“I know what could happen.”
“Then why does my concern feel like an insult?”
“Because I used to get into a car without it becoming a medical decision.”
The sentence landed between us.
I said nothing.
His breathing quickened.
“I can’t unpack groceries without you deciding I need sleep.”
“You put spinach in a cabinet.”
“I noticed.”
“After I said something.”
“You didn’t.”
He stopped.
Confusion crossed his face.
I had said nothing about the spinach.
He looked from the cabinet to me.
His speech slowed further.
“I don’t want you seeing all of it.”
“All of what?”
“How useless I am.”
“You are not useless.”
“I can’t put on one shoe without you kneeling in front of me.”
“That does not make you—”
“I know. Surgery. Brain injury. Rehabilitation. Temporary. I know every word.”
He shoved the bread onto the counter.
“I am tired of the words.”
“Noah.”
“Finish it yourself.”
He left the kitchen.
His limp worsened halfway down the hall.
The bedroom door closed hard behind him.
I stood among the groceries with my hands shaking.
The rational part of me understood.
Fatigue.
Frustration.
Loss of independence.
The emotional part had spent weeks swallowing fear, answering alarms, managing the yard, and ensuring the financial pressure never reached him.
His anger still hurt.
I put away the groceries.
Carefully.
Quietly.
The jar of blackberry preserves went into the refrigerator, though it belonged in the pantry.
I did not notice until much later.
Noah needed space.
I needed somewhere to place anger that did not belong on him.
I went downstairs.
The workshop was empty.
Sunday light filtered through the high windows, revealing every layer of salt and dust on the glass. I took a bucket, rags, and cleaner from the utility room.
Then I scrubbed.
The windows first.
The inside of the bay doors.
The salt haze from the office glass.
I climbed the rolling stair platform and cleaned panes no one had touched in years.
Physical labor simplified the noise in me.
Noah was frightened.
I was tired.
Neither truth made either of us cruel.
The insurance claim was still unresolved.
The yard still required money.
My partner had shouted because he needed his life to belong to him.
I had responded by leaving the apartment.
The thought stopped my hands.
Had I gone downstairs to give him privacy?
Or had some uglier part of me wanted him to notice my absence?
Shame tightened my stomach.
I climbed down.
I should have told him where I was going.
The whistle might have carried upstairs if the stairwell door had been open.
It wasn’t.
I dropped the rag into the bucket.
Then I heard my name.
Faint.
From above.
“Reid!”
I ran.
The stairs blurred beneath me.
I opened the apartment door hard enough that it struck the wall.
“Noah?”
A sob came from the bedroom.
I crossed the hall.
He sat against the headboard with the blanket twisted around his legs. His face was wet. His breath came too fast.
“You were gone.”
“I’m here.”
I approached the bed and stopped beyond reach.
“Can I touch you?”
His arms came toward me.
I sat and pulled him against my chest.
Noah clung with both hands.
“I called.”
“I didn’t hear. I was downstairs.”
“You left.”
“I was trying to give you space. I should have told you where I went.”
“I thought—”
His breath broke.
“I saw your face in the kitchen.”
“What did you see?”
“I hurt you.”
“Yes.”
The honesty made him cry harder.
I held him through it.
“But I did not leave you.”
“You should.”
“No.”
“I’m horrible.”
“You were overwhelmed.”
“I yelled.”
“Yes.”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
He drew back enough to see me.
“You can be angry?”
“I’m a person, Noah.”
His expression crumpled.
“I know. God, I know. That’s why I’m sorry.”
I wiped the tears from his cheeks.
“Anger does not cancel love.”
“You could become tired of this.”
“I am tired.”
His eye widened.
I continued before fear could twist the words.
“I am tired of insurers. I am tired of waking afraid. I am tired of seeing you in pain. I am tired of never knowing whether helping will comfort you or make you feel trapped.”
My voice roughened.
“I am not tired of you.”
He lowered his face.
“I want to be easier.”
“I do not want easy.”
“You say that because you’re good.”
“I say it because the truth is complicated.”
He breathed against my shirt.
“What happened after I left the kitchen?”
“I finished putting away the groceries.”
“Then?”
“I went downstairs and cleaned windows.”
“You clean when you’re angry?”
“I work.”
“Did you want to come back?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I believed you needed space.”
“I fell asleep.”
“Nightmare?”
He nodded.
“What happened?”
“You were in the apartment, but every door I opened led to an empty room.”
His fingers twisted in my shirt.
“I used the whistle. You didn’t answer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I woke up and you were gone.”
“I should have left a note.”
“You do not have to report every movement.”
“Right now, perhaps I should.”
He drew a shaking breath.
“I’m sorry about the market.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t angry because you helped.”
“What were you angry about?”
“That I needed help.”
I moved my hand slowly over his back.
“I know.”
“And this morning.”
I waited.
His body tightened.
“The touching.”
“What about it?”
“I wanted more.”
“You stopped.”
“My body wanted more.”
“Yes.”
“My head didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you would be disappointed.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were hard.”
“That is a physical response. Not a demand.”
“I know that now.”
“You knew the words this morning.”
“I understood them.” He lifted his head. “It felt different afterward.”
“What felt different?”
“The shame.”
My chest tightened.
“There is no shame in stopping.”
“I felt as though I had promised something by starting.”
“You did not.”
“What if my brain never catches up with my body?”
“We talked about that.”
“I need to hear it again.”
I held his gaze.
“Then we do only what you want. Forever, if that is what you need.”
His mouth trembled.
“You would miss sex.”
“Yes.”
“But you would stay.”
“Yes.”
“What if I want to try something and panic halfway through?”
“We stop.”
“What if I want it one day and hate the thought of it the next?”
“We listen to the day we are in.”
“What if you are close and I tell you no?”
“I stop.”
He searched my face.
“No anger?”
“I may feel frustrated. I will manage that frustration myself.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“The rule is simple. Feelings rarely are.”
His palm pressed against my chest.
“I want closeness.”
“We have closeness.”
“I want sexual things too. Sometimes.”
“All right.”
“But not everything.”