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“I… eat. Sometimes.”
“Well, if you didn’t, you’d be dead.” Dr. Deacon tilts his head at him. “More specifically, please?”
“You were being really nice a minute ago,” Maison mumbles.
“And you were being genuine a minute ago. You want to act too cool for this? I’ll treat you the same. I’m not wasting my patience and compassion on someone who is going to walk right out of here and forget everything I said to him.”
Maison swallows hard, looking away from him. His eyes find me instead. Something breaks in his expression, like it’s caving in on itself. He brings a hand up while also turning his face away from both of us. Dr. Deacon and I exchange a worried look while Maison gathers himself. He drops his hand after a minute, but keeps his face turned away. “I try to eat whenever Nolan cooks, but I haven’t made it to all of his meals.”
Dr. Deacon, who Maison once told me has his own small cabin a mile away in the woods, isn’t here much outside of normal hours now that we’re so low in numbers and need. So, when he looks at me with a raised brow, I know he’s asking how often I do that. “I make dinner a few times a week. I’ve made breakfast—um—three times, maybe?”
I try not to let guilt swallow me whole. I would have cooked more often if I’d known it’d get him to eat.
“And when Nolan doesn’t cook?” Dr. Deacon asks Maison. “Or when you don’t make it to his meals?”
“A protein bar sometimes.”
“And other times?”
Maison finally looks at him. “Whiskey works great. Or vodka, in a pinch.”
“Does it now?” He eyes Maison. “You know, it’s funny—I’m not sure I’ve seen you in a shirt in all the time you’ve been back. Or shirtless. I even caught you in the gym once, soaking in sweat but still in a hoodie.”
I frown, trying to think of times I’ve seen him like that. I’m pretty sure the only time I saw him in a shirt was the night I interrupted him in his room. I saw him shirtless that night, too. If he’s been hiding his bruises and cuts, it makes sense why he would avoid going around with his torso naked, but what does it matter if it’s a shirt covering him versus a sweatshirt?
Dr. Deacon helps me understand when he asks, “Just how much weight have you lost since the operation’s completion?”
Maison’s silence makes me feel hollow inside.
Just how much has he not been eating?
“And how much of the food that you did eat were you able to keep down?”
“In the early days? Not much.” Maison peeks at me before dropping his head. “Recently… about half.”
“Have you weighed yourself or do you need me to weigh you?”
“Is that really necessary?”
Dr. Deacon huffs. “Yes. If I’m going to prescribe you anything, I need an accurate weight.”
“I’m assuming you’ll want to look at my ribs too at some point?”
“If you’ll let me.”
“Fine.” Maison slides off the table, the corner of his jaw flexing. He grabs his sweatshirt and yanks it off. The action must hurt, but Maison is as stoic as ever as he tosses the ball of fabric to the side and lifts his arms as if to present himself to us. I had been so worried about the bruises before, I hadn’t noticed the rest. But I remember meeting him at the party, even if it was a blur of fear and pain, and he didn’t look anything like this. I quickly look away as I feel tears stinging my eyes, not wanting him to see me get upset.
“The scale,” Dr. Deacon quietly urges. “Please.”
I hear the subtle click of metal pressing down, then a long silence. “Maison,” Dr. Deacon says, his voice strained.
“I know,” Maison murmurs. The metal clicks again. I still can’t look, not even blinking in case it makes the tears start to fall. “I’ll do better.”
“Is this something you need to talk to Dr. Singh about? Is this purposeful?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Maison—”
