Page 26 of These Tears

Blue. Bent corner. Elias beneath the flap.

The next inhale fills my lungs completely.

And that’s the problem. There is no sane reason pictures of Elias should anchor me like this. No sane reason the sight of a dangerous man should make my breathing easier when the past comes barrelling through my chest.

5

When I sneeze for the fiftieth time in two minutes, I’m nearly reluctant to wipe my nose, which already feels as if it’s about to burn off my face.

‘Some herbal tea, darling.’ Anna sets down a tray with an orange, two biscuits and a steaming mug. ‘Is the fever gone?’

I sink deeper into the mattress, dragging the duvet up to my chin as if another few pounds of cotton might smother whatever unholy thing has taken up residence in my lungs.

‘If it is, it doesn’t feel like it,’ I respond, already closing my eyes and burying my face in the pillow.

‘I see,’ she says. ‘How about something to cheer you up?’

‘An exorcist?’ I grumble without turning. ‘Chocolate. A Samoan masseuse. A magic wand, maybe?’

I blink through the fever-fog and finally push myself upright.

She’s holding up a letter with Crane’s name facing me.

A little bit of life returns to my limbs as I take it from her, but she remains planted beside the bed with an overly expectant expression.

I look at her.

She looks at the letter, then back at me.

Pressing my lips tight together, I slowly tuck it beneath the duvet.

Her mouth falls open a fraction. ‘Oh, come on.’

I cock a brow at that.

Giving me a deeply wounded look, she mutters something about ingratitude and leaves with considerably less grace than she entered.

The second the door clicks shut, I tear it open.

The first line reads, ‘Am I a dark romance trope?’

I huff a laugh—

Which immediately drops me into a fit of phlegmy coughing before I can read the rest.

Two spaces below that: ‘Honey for the throat. Thyme for the cough. Whisky for the soul.’

Rebecca must have told him I have the flu.

My eyes trace the curves of his slanted handwriting, almost visualising his hand as it holds the pen.

I catch myself wondering how he manages to say so little and still unravel something in me every time.

Then my thoughts turn, and the warmth in my chest goes with them.

I’ve been Elias Crane’s friend for several months now. Summer’s on the cusp of breaking through the rainclouds, and I often find myself counting days between visits like someone nursing a small addiction.

One-a-week has turned to two visits, sometimes more when the schedule allows. And still, the letters keep coming, whether I’d just seen him or not.