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One of his hands breaks free of mine and covers his eyes. I lean in closer, cradling his hand in my lap, stroking his arm.
“I’m sorry.” It’s half groaned.
“Don’t be sorry.” I swallow as his entire body begins quaking. “Don’t be frightened. I’m here with you.” I feel chill-bumps on his skin, and I rack my brain for what could be the matter. “Have you ever had a seizure?”
I’m startled by the speed with which he’s sitting up and crawling away. And then he’s retching. He’s managed to get off the blankets. He’s there on the cold floor on his hands and knees. I come near and he swats at me, but he’s trembling so forcefully, I’m frightened and I can’t go.
I stick by him, trying to help brace his chill-swept torso. When at last he finishes, he grips my shoulder. “Fuck.”
He crawls back to the blanket, curling on his side. I touch his shoulder. “Let’s take off your shirt…”
My fingers brush his burning skin as I help him get out of it. After that, he simply lies there, pale and shaking, and my heart bleeds for him. I stroke his hair back, then lie on my side so that I’m level with him.
“If I can ease you—anything at all…”
His eyes open, reaching toward mine before closing. “Thanks.”
I settle on my side, curling my body toward his even as he seems to fall into a solid sleep. He moves so little in the next few hours, I’m reminded of a hospice patient.
I repeatedly check his pulse, tuck my sleeping bag around him. When he twitches or shifts fitfully, I smooth my palm over his damp forehead. I’m so puzzled, so horrified and fearful for him, that I want to weep—but I know I don’t have that luxury. I take my fear and frustration out on the cave’s wall.
Perhaps it’s the noise, but soon he’s talking in his sleep. He jolts up, panting, looking terror-stricken. I rush over. When he doesn’t look at me, I stroke his warm, hard-muscled arm and feel the chills that sweep his skin.
“There now. Let’s lie down.”
We lie together, and I wrap an arm around him. When I urge him closer, he leans in, his breaths near enough that I can feel their warmth on my chest.
I stroke his hair until he’s quiet, and that’s all I hear of him for hours. When I realize he should be drinking and attempt to wake him for some water, he shakes his head. Hours slip by as I lie with him, then wield the hammer, and then lie with him again, getting up when my fears mount and drastic notions flitter through my head. What if he needs help urgently? What if it happens again?
At long last, his blue eyes open slightly. They start to shut, but I’m there with a water bottle, guiding it to his lips, which look quite dry and cracked.
His whole upper body heaves, but he avoids retching. He’s shaking again, like nothing that I’ve ever seen. I tuck the blanket around him. “I’m so sorry.”
My fingers move through his hair, gently. His hand reaches up to capture mine. He brings my hand to his chest, folds his other arm around it, and sinks back into sleep.
* * *
Declan
2005
“Get her to take care of you, dude. Hot nurse.”
Nate levels a glare at Farhad. His red hair sticks up everywhere behind the gauze around his head as he rolls his eyes. I can’t help grinning as I think about the Texas word he always uses—“ornery.” He looks ornery right now.
“No one’s gonna be in here,” he tells Farhad. “Except the real nurse.”
Mrs. Beecham is a nice lady with pretty blue eyes that actually look a lot like Nate’s. She’s pushing centenarian status, though.
Alfonzo shrugs. “At least she always smells good.”
“Ugh, that’s just disgusting. Ugh.” Nate leans back against a pillow on a couch inside the ski lodge’s great room.
Alf swats at Nate’s pile of blankets. “Just tryin’ to keep it real, brother.”
“Real is taking pain meds when you bash your head open. Real’s Alana’s tits. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I’m stuck on the stupid couch.”
This morning, Nate tried to kiss a fir tree—while skiing a black diamond. Mr. Laurent and Mr. Berns led a group up there, and since ole boy’s been skiing since he was a kid, he thought he could hang. I tried to tell him he should wait, but brother’s too competitive.
