When the last layer comes away, the wounds are finally exposed.
I cradle his hand in the dim light. The skin is bruised and cut, but it could have been worse.
“You’re lucky,” I say quietly. “Your career…you could’ve ruined your hands.”
“I know.” He tips his head back, eyes on the ceiling. “I know.”
I soak a cotton pad in saline and press it lightly to the skin.
“Thank you for everything,” he says. “And again…I’m sorry about all of this.”
I sigh inside. That need he has to apologize hits a soft spot in me. It’s like watching a film I’ve seen a hundred times, and I already know I hate the ending.
“Don’t.”
The word comes out stronger than I meant. He tenses, so I soften my tone.
“Stop apologizing, Tom. You don’t need to.”
Confusion appears in his eyes, but then he composes himself and nods.
This is Tom at his most vulnerable, in a state where his bare soul speaks the truth. This is so much more than I ever anticipated and it’s conflicting with all the boundaries I struggle to keep. I absolutely can’t show how much this is affecting me.
I finish wrapping his hands, smoothing the last bandage into place with the soft strokes of my thumb on his knuckles. I lookhim in the eye as I hold his hand in mine. “You feeling okay now? Feeling calm?”
“I’m alright.”
He isn’t. I still see the shadows in his eyes, but anything I say now would be too much, and he needs rest, not another conversation.
I get up. “You should sleep. I’ll check on you later. If you need anything, page me. Promise me, Tom.”
He pushes himself up from the table, leaning on the chair as he nods.
Everything feels awkward and fragile right now, but he manages to offer me a reassuring smile. It's the smile of an artist. Someone who can shape themselves into whoever you want them to be. It hurts.
“Thanks, Yosh. Sleep well.”
“You too, Tom,” I say, and step outside.
With the door falling into its lock, I suddenly get gripped by this wave of dizziness. I close my eyes to shake it off, focussing on the sound of the crashing waves and the cicadas who are singing their song in the early break of dawn.
For a moment I just stand there, listening to the sounds of a world that keeps moving forward, no matter what.
Chapter fourteen
Tom
Iwake. Pass out. Wake again. Pass out again. Each time, the dull throb in my skull hits harder.
I scrunch my face. Not even a 72-hour rave ever left my head feeling this wrecked. And the irony? Not a single drop of alcohol was involved.
A dry scoff makes its way out of my throat. I glare at the ceiling. Roll onto my stomach, dragging the pillow over my head.
“Arrggh.”
Maybe Yosh has a crystal for this.
Yoshhhh.
