Chapter 36
THIRTY-SIX
Zachary
Rhys goes through Alexia's drawers like each item's a priceless antiquity, folding each shirt perfectly, smoothing the collar and sleeves with military precision.
Meanwhile, I toss her toothbrush and facewash and a phone charger into the same reusable grocery bag.
After a while though, I start to see Rhys might be onto something.
I need to focus on something that isn't picturing Leon's bloodied, almost unrecognisable face when they wheeled him past us.
“She's not okay,” I say from the foot of the bed, watching Rhys unfold a pair of her socks and refold them before putting them in the bag.
Rhys doesn't look up. “What makes you say that?”
“The fact that she's obviously not okay!” I pick at a fraying thread on the quilt.
“Can you blame her?”
No. I don't blame her. I just don't know what to do to help her.
“Hey, um. Can I ask you something?” I don't wait for him to reply. He won't. “Has she let you touch her? Since he got out of surgery.”
Rhys doesn't answer. Just keeps folding and refolding the pair of leggings in his hands, smoothing the same crease flat three, four, five times.
I huff. “Come on, man. This isn't the time to pretend we're not all in love with the same woman. I'm worried about her and need your opinion.”
He sighs, long and pained — fifteen years of friendship has taught me what that means: he's about to open up and he's not happy about it. “No. I've tried. A few times. She pulls away. Or suddenly remembers somewhere she needs to be.”
“Same,” I offer. “I don't like that she won't let us be there for her.”
He tucks the leggings into the bag and zips it up. “I think you can guess what's going on in her head.”
“Yeah. And it's exactly what I'm afraid of.” Not just that she's shutting us out, but punishing herself, like keeping us at arm's length is some penance she's decided she owes for lying to her brother. “It's going to get worse if she won't talk to anyone.”
“Give her time. She might be different once he's awake,” he says, his rare optimism worrying me almost as much as her detachment.
“She won't be the only one.” I rub a hand over my face. “Fuck, he does not look good.”
Rhys doesn't say anything. He puts the duffel bag down, crosses the room and hugs me, arms tight enough I feel the breath go out of me. His hand fists once in my shirt, like he needs the anchor too. Neither of us moves to end it first.
We're still standing there letting each other be our support when Marcus walks in.
“Are you —” He stops in the doorway, a giant box of protein bars under one arm, and looks genuinely wounded. “Hey! Did you two wait until I was busy in the kitchen to have a moment? I need a hug too, yaknow?”
I roll my eyes at him over Rhys's shoulder. “Get in here, then.”
He lets out a delighted sound — I want to say 'squeal' — and creates a gap with his body and wedges himself in, turning it into a three-way group hug, all elbows and complaints about feet being stepped on. None of us pulls away first.
“It's not the same without our fourth,” Marcus says into my shoulder.
I feel Rhys stiffen, before I say, “Is it seriously fucked up I don't know which Riley sibling you mean?”
Marcus sighs and then shakes his head. “No. It's why I didn't stipulate. I guess it was a test.”
“Well, I fucking failed it,” I say.
Rhys pulls back, searching my eyes for an answer I don't have — not one I'm willing to give. Finally: “I think I did too. Still don't know what that means. Which one did we fail?”
“Well, I think having this conversation means we've failed them both,” I reply, dropping my head onto someone's shoulder. I don't care whose. “How are we going to tell him?”
There's a collective shudder through the group hug, which has now lasted way too long. Rhys steps back, clearly at his limit for outward affection toward anyone who isn't Alexia.
Marcus lets out a whimpering noise, and I give him a little squeeze in consolation. In another life, he'd probably be some sort of pack animal.
“That's something we discuss with Alexia first,” Rhys says, peering into the toiletries bag I 'packed,' scrunching his nose before tipping everything out to repack. “She has to agree to him knowing before we figure out how.”
“You don't really think she'll want to hide it, do you?” Marcus says, flopping onto the bed. “You heard her. They don't hide things from each other.”
“Near-fatal car accidents aren't the same as 'so, hey, just thought you should know, all your best friends are fucking me,'” I contribute.
Marcus frowns. “That's not all we're doing here.” He flicks his eyes to us. “Not for me, at least. Can't speak for you two.”
Rhys gives him an insulted look but doesn't address it.
“Regardless of what we're doing — or feeling — we're involved with his sister.
Someone he's always said was off limits.
How do you think he's going to take it?” He looks pointedly at Marcus.
“You're not even that close with your sister — if one of us told you we were involved with Sophie, how would you feel?”
Marcus's jaw goes tight, and he doesn't argue.
“Bottom line,” Rhys says. “We have to talk to her.”
“But she's not really in the mood to talk right now,” Marcus says, turning over and burying his head in her pillow. “I mean, I feel like she's acting like I have a raging case of syphilis or something.”
I give Rhys a 'told you' look. “Yeah. If even this doofus has picked up on that, it's gotta be pretty damn obvious.”
“Hey, I pick up on things!” Marcus says, his voice muffled. Then he pushes off the bed with a groan. “Come on. Let's get back to her.” He grabs the bags and pauses at the door, the joking dropping off him. “For what it's worth, Leon's what matters right now. We need that fucker to wake up.”
Nobody argues with that either.
She won't sit still and she won't sleep, and by hour forty she's swaying on her feet in the corridor, and none of us can get her to admit it.
Luckily, Rhys finds a fix. Disappears for ten minutes and comes back with a nurse who says Alexia can use an empty room down the hall, just to close her eyes for a bit.
“How did you manage that?” I ask him.
“I asked.”
Right. Of course. Why didn't I think of that?
I'm being flippant. Truth is, I didn't think of it. Rhys always does, and then just does it. For a split second I feel like a failure — to Alexia, for not giving her what she needs, and to Leon. If I'm already risking our friendship, the least I could do is take care of his sister properly.
Later, Zach. Time for beating yourself up is later.
Surprisingly, Alexia follows the nurse, agreeing to lie down, which tells me exactly how tired she is. I ask if she wants one of us to sit with her. She hesitates; I watch her want to say yes, then shakes her head.
“No. Better you're out here, in case there's news.”
“Lex,” I say, though there aren't any other words to follow.
She just turns and stumbles down the corridor, and I let her go, because I don't know what I'd say next if she stopped.
She's asleep less than an hour when I go to wake her.
She startles up off the pillow like the room's on fire.
“What happened? Is Leon okay?” are the first words out of my mouth, even before her eyes are fully open.
“He's awake,” I tell her. “Come on, sweetheart. He's asking for you.”
She's out of the bed before I finish the sentence, flinging herself at me, her arms around my neck as she lets out a short, fierce sound that isn't quite a laugh and isn't quite a sob.
Then she seems to catch herself doing it, pulls back fast, and clears her throat. “Um, sorry.”
“Why are you apologis—”
“We better go,” she cuts me off. “I'm gonna go give my stupid big brother one hell of a talking to.”
“You look like shit,” is the first thing he says to her, which is such a Leon thing to say that it causes her to burst out into tears.
If he's startled, he doesn't show it — just rolls his eyes, which turns into a chuckle when she slaps his arm.
“I look like shit? I'm not the one who tried to merge lanes with a kangaroo.” She sits down on the chair I drag over for her next to his bed. “What were you thinking? Driving out here at night, for my birthday? Do you know what that would have done to me, if—”
“But did I die?” Slow, emphasising every word, a ghost of a grin at the corner of his mouth. “Bit of a non-issue, really. So dramatic, little sis. You know me — the things I'll do for a good story.”
She glares. “That's not funny.”
“Then I guess I better work harder at getting an even better story.” He grins at me and I shake my head, but relief spreads in my chest like a warm cup of tea.
Alexia goes very still, and for a second I think she's going to let him have it. Instead her face crumples, and she leans forward and presses her forehead to the back of his hand.
“Never again,” she says, muffled. “You are never, ever doing something that stupid for me again.”
“Can't promise that.” His fingers twitch against her hair. “You're kind of worth being stupid for.”
She doesn't scold him again. Just sits and talks, tells him she loves him, that their mum's working out how to get off the cruise ship and home, which he protests, about her studies. He drifts in and out, eyes opening every time she pauses.
Eventually, her words are slow and slurred, her own eyes starting to fall. The nurse comes and says he needs rest, and suggests Alexia do the same.
She kisses his forehead on her way out, promising to be back soon. I watch her hand shake doing it.
I stay a second longer. “Glad you're back, mate.”
“No drama.” Eyes already dropping shut. Then, half asleep: “Thanks. For taking care of her.”
I don't say anything. I don't trust what would come out.
I go to catch up with Alexia, and the whole way down the corridor I can't shake the feeling that I don't deserve a single word of that thank you.