Chapter 6
REID
Dr. Whitcomb cornered me during morning rounds three days later.
“You look worse,” she said.
“Thank you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
Noah sat in bed while a resident tested the strength in his right arm. He watched us from across the room, which meant I could not answer honestly.
Dr. Whitcomb lowered her voice.
“When did you last sleep for more than three hours?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you last spend a full night at home?”
“I go home.”
“At what hour?”
“Late.”
“And return?”
“Early.”
She folded her arms.
I recognized the posture from every meeting in which she intended to wait longer than I did.
“I’m fine.”
Noah spoke from the bed.
“He says that when he’s not.”
I looked at him.
The resident smiled.
Dr. Whitcomb raised an eyebrow. “Interesting.”
Noah’s expression remained grave, though a hint of amusement touched his mouth.
“You’ve known me for less than two weeks,” I said.
“You say it a lot.”
The resident finished the examination and left.
Dr. Whitcomb stepped closer to the bed.
“Today is a difficult day, Noah.”
“Why?”
“Because physical therapy intends to get you upright.”
His amusement disappeared.
“Standing?”
“With help.”
He looked at his braced arm, then at the frame positioned near the wall.
“I can’t.”
“That is why several trained people will assist you.”
His gaze found me.
The fear in it was unmistakable.
I moved to the side of the bed, stopping at the distance he preferred.
“You don’t have to be fearless,” I said.
“That sounds like something people say before terrible ideas.”
“It probably is.”
The physical therapist arrived with two assistants.
Her name was Priya, and she possessed the calm authority of someone who had heard every objection a frightened patient could invent.
She explained each step.
First, Noah would sit on the edge of the bed.
Then they would wait for the dizziness to settle.
Then he would shift weight onto his left leg while the assistants supported his pelvis and torso.
The goal was not walking.
The goal was three breaths upright.
“That’s all?” Noah asked.
“That’s enough,” Priya said.
They lowered the rail.
I moved away to give them space.
Noah’s eye followed me.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
I stood where he could see me.
The bed rose. His body came forward slowly.
Even that movement drained color from his face.
He closed his eyes.
Priya placed one hand behind his shoulders. “Stay with me.”
“I’m here.”
“What do you feel?”
“Sick.”
“That’s expected. Keep breathing.”
His left foot touched the floor.
His injured side remained protected.
Sweat gathered near his hairline.
I wanted to stop them.
Everything in me rebelled against watching him suffer voluntarily. He had survived steel, surgery, swelling, and days of darkness. Surely he had earned stillness.
But stillness would not take him home.
Priya waited until his breathing steadied.
“Ready?”
“No.”
“Good answer. We’re doing it anyway.”
Noah’s gaze snapped to mine.
I gave him the smallest smile.
“One breath,” I said.
He drew it in.
“Another.”
He obeyed.
On Priya’s count, they lifted him.
Noah made a sound low in his throat.
His left foot bore weight.
His body shook violently.
For one second, he was standing.
For two.
On the third, his head dropped.
His knees softened.
The assistants lowered him immediately.
I crossed the room before I knew I had moved.
Priya blocked me with one arm while they settled him against the pillows.
“He’s safe.”
Noah’s skin looked almost translucent.
His eye remained closed.
Breath tore from him in short bursts.
“Pressure?” Priya asked.
He shook his head once.
“Spinning?”
A tiny nod.
A basin appeared.
He did not vomit, though he came close.
The therapist checked his pulse and pupils.
“You did it,” she said.
He looked furious.
“I failed.”
“You stood.”
“For two seconds.”
“Three.”
“That’s worse.”
Priya smiled. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Also an expected answer.”
When the rehabilitation team left, the room became painfully quiet.
Noah lay still.
A tear tracked toward his ear.
I pulled the chair close.
“Do you want me here?”
He did not answer.
I waited.
His right hand moved across the blanket.
I thought he was searching for the call button.
Then his fingers opened.
Toward me.
I placed my hand in his.
His grip closed weakly.
“It hurt,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I hate this.”
“You’re allowed.”
“I hate everyone watching.”
“I know.”
He swallowed.
“Don’t say I did well.”
“All right.”
“Don’t say tomorrow will be easier.”
“I won’t.”
His fingers tightened.
“Just stay.”
“I’m here.”
He kept hold of me until the medication took effect.
When sleep came, his hand relaxed but did not fall away.
I remained beside him.
At some point, I drifted off with my head against the wall.
A machine chimed.
I woke violently, heart racing.
A nurse stood beside the infusion pump.
“Sorry,” she whispered.
Noah was awake.
He watched me with an expression I had not seen before.
Not the politeness he offered staff.
Not the careful curiosity he brought to our conversations.
Something warmer.
“You jump like Marlowe,” he said.
I straightened. “You remember Marlowe jumping?”
“No. You told me he’s dramatic.”
“That’s true.”
“You’re dramatic too.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
His mouth curved.
The nurse finished adjusting the pump and slipped out.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
Noah looked at the chair.
“You slept there?”
“Apparently.”
“Looks uncomfortable.”
“It is.”
“Go home tonight.”
The suggestion struck harder than it should have.
“I will.”
“You’re lying.”
“I might.”
“Still lying.”
I studied him.
There were traces of the man I knew in the dry delivery, but I no longer chased resemblance. Dr. Whitcomb had warned me not to turn every expression into evidence.
“I’ll try,” I said.
He accepted that.
Lunch arrived.
The covered plate held fish, overcooked vegetables, and something described as herb rice.
Noah lifted the lid and stared.
“No.”
“I brought an alternative.”
His gaze went to the insulated bag beneath my chair.
“You always do.”
The words warmed me absurdly.
I unpacked a container divided into small sections: soft cheese, sliced pear, crackers, pieces of chicken, and chocolate-covered raisins.
Noah inspected it.
“I like this.”
“You ate most of it yesterday.”
“You made it?”
“Yes.”
“For me?”
“I dislike cutting pears into identical pieces for strangers.”
He picked one up.
“You cut them the same size.”
“I have standards.”
I took the hospital fish for myself.
Noah frowned.
“You don’t have to eat that.”
“It’s food.”
“It looks punished.”
I laughed.
The sound startled both of us.
Noah watched me as though he had accomplished something.
We ate quietly.
His right hand worked well. His left remained immobilized, but the swelling in his fingers had decreased enough that he could move them.
“The doctor said you don’t sleep,” he said.
I swallowed the bite of rice.
“She exaggerates.”
“She said you nearly fell over yesterday.”
“I stood up too fast.”
“Why don’t you go home?”
The obvious answer pressed behind my teeth.
Because the bed feels wrong without you.
Because I wake reaching for someone who cannot remember sleeping beside me.
Because every hour away from you feels like a theft after nearly losing you.
“I worry,” I said.
“About me.”
“Yes.”
His gaze lowered to the food.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I’m why you’re here.”
“You’re also why I have a home, a business that survived three terrible years, and a dog who thinks he owns my pillow.”
His eye lifted.
“You keep saying things like that.”
“What things?”
“Like I did something good.”
“You did many good things.”
“I don’t know that person.”
“You don’t have to know him all at once.”
He rolled a cracker between his fingers.
“I wish I knew you.”
The room went very still.
I set down my fork.
Noah looked directly at me.
“You come every day,” he said. “You know when the light hurts before I say it. You bring food I can eat. Leah trusts you. The nurses trust you.”
“You don’t have to build a case.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“All right.”
He squinted at me.
“You’re not…” He stopped.
“What?”
“The word.”
“Take your time.”
“I know it.”
His frustration arrived immediately.
“Don’t force it.”
“I hate when people say that.”
“Then force it.”
He shot me an irritated look.
I almost smiled.
“You’re not…” He closed his eye. “Not ugly.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“That isn’t the word.”
“It’s a reasonable start.”
“No.” He rubbed his forehead. “The opposite. I mean—”
“Attractive?”
His eye opened.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
A flush rose beneath the fading bruises along his cheek.
He looked down.
“I was going to say you’re not difficult to look at.”
“That is devastatingly romantic.”
“I have brain damage.”
“So your defense is excellent.”
His mouth twitched.
Then he laughed.
It was quiet and cut short by pain, but unmistakable.
I had heard that laugh in our kitchen, in the yard, beneath blankets, across crowded rooms.
This one did not belong to memory.
I had earned it now.
The realization made my eyes burn.
Noah noticed.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Look like you’re about to cry when I say something stupid.”
“I’ve had a difficult month.”
“It hasn’t been a month.”
“It feels longer.”
He ate another piece of pear.
“So I thought you were attractive before?”
“You were subtle.”
“What did I do?”
“You stared.”
“That’s not subtle.”
“You also found reasons to borrow tools from me.”
“Were they good tools?”
“Noah.”
He smiled again.
A nurse appeared in the doorway.
“Rest period.”
I stood.
Noah’s smile faded.
I gathered the containers.
“I’ll come back at three.”
He watched me.
“We,” he said.
I paused.
“What?”
“You said before that we’d work things out if my memory didn’t come back.”
I remembered the conversation.
“Yes.”
His fingers worried the edge of the blanket.
“What if I don’t want a we?”
The question was so quiet it nearly disappeared.
I put the container down.
“Then there won’t be one.”
He looked up sharply.
“I won’t ask you to live a life you don’t choose.”
“You’d leave?”
“If that’s what you needed.”
His face became unreadable.
I forced myself to continue.