Page 92 of A Bookish Story

“You know what? That might be a good thing. Because I don’t really know where I am right now.” He glances around the room and chuckles. “Oh wait. I do remember this place. This is Henry’s house.”

“Good grief. You need water to flush those pills through your system.”

I find him a bottle of water and hand it over. Maybe I should wait to ask my question, but the drugs have become a truth serum for him.

Ryan takes gulps of water, alternately wincing and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I think I better go to bed. That’s a great idea, the best I’ve had today.”

“Let me help.”

“No, I can do this.” But he’s favoring the opposite arm, which makes him walk a bit sideways.

I follow him into the bedroom, the secret portion of the house previously hidden from me. I feel like the heroine in The Secret Garden. The ornate mahogany bed in the center of the room looks like a replica of an eighteenth-century one. There is even more of Professor Henry’s erotica art on his dresser, on the walls. It looks like Ryan has taken one corner of the room. He’s brought no framed photos except of a young girl on the nightstand. She beams into the camera with a familiar smile.

That’s Ryan’s smile. His niece? Daughter? He’s never mentioned her, but maybe it’s a delicate subject. Still, if he had a daughter, I know I would have heard that. The beautiful girl has a crooked front tooth, the light in her shimmering blue eyes mischievous. I want to pick up this photo and study it closer.

A groaning sound gets my attention.

Ryan has reached the bed, is attempting to take off his shirt and is doubled over in pain.

I rush to his side. “Let me.”

The less he moves his arms the better, so I ease the long-sleeved button-up down one shoulder, insuring him as little movement as possible. I am able to slide it off without having to move his arms.

“Hey, you’re really good at this,” Ryan says.

He groans, his face a mask of pain. There are purple and blue bruises on his rib cage and now I’m the one wincing.

“Oh, Ryan,” I whisper, my fingers hovering over his bruises. “This looks bad.”

Ryan lies back and from the expression on his face this move wasn’t a good idea.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” I say, grabbing the discharge instructions I set down on his dresser and scanning them. “It says here it might be best to sleep in a chair for the first few nights. Less pressure on the rib cage. Isn’t that chair in the living room a recliner?”

“But that would mean I have to move again.”

“I’ll help you.” But I can’t when he brushes me off.

“I’ve got it.” He’s not all that steady but shuffles his way to the chair, sits, and pulls out the recliner portion. “My father has a chair like this.”

“Eddie has one, too.”

I used to think those chairs were made for old men but then I sat in one. Now I think the idea of making a chair that’s a little bit of a bed is pure genius.

“I’m reduced to sleeping in a chair.” Ryan shuts his eyes and scowls. “How am I going to finish my book?”

“We’ll figure something out.” I find a blanket, which I carefully place over him avoiding his injured areas.

He’s still not wearing a shirt and this is slightly distracting so covering him helps both of us.

He opens one eye. “Thank you.”

“The instructions also say icing is a good idea, so I should go to the store and get some ice packs. The soft ones.”

He probably wants to snooze but…well, before he does, I want to know how he came up with the pen name. I want to know specifically who she is. She’s my namesake, so to speak, so I have a right to know. In the back of my mind, I hope I don’t embarrass myself and that Millie hasn’t set me up.

“Ryan? Are you awake?”