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“I know,” he bites out.
“They must have prescribed something stronger for you at the hospital.”
He shrugs and looks unhappy, that generous mouth turning down at the corners. “I don’t need stronger stuff. No addictive shit. No way.”
Still, he accepts the pills when I put them in his hand and swallows them down, chasing them with a sip of water. I take away his half-full plate and put it in the fridge. Easy to reheat later on, if he wants it.
He’s glaring down at his knee when I return. I sit down beside him and put my hand on it.
He flinches and scoots back, pressing into the sofa. “What?”
“That brace has to come off. It’s useful when you walk, but when you rest, better remove it.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I had some basic first aid training.” And seen a lot of injuries—part and parcel of a dancer’s training. You learn a few things over the years.
I reach for the brace again, and he says nothing as I undo the straps and ease it down, though he can’t help a grimace. The skin is hot to the touch. I pull the brace off, trying to decide whether it needs a second compress.
“Listen, Manon…” He shifts on the sofa, not looking at me, and reaches for the dry pants I laid out for him. “I should head back.”
“You serious? In this rain, with your knee like this?”
“Then what?”
“Stay,” I say. I swallow hard, because in my mind it didn’t sound so weird. “I mean, the couch is long enough.”
“Not sure this is a good idea,” he whispers and rakes a hand through his hair. It’s almost dry now and falls in his eyes, soft and shiny black. He reaches for the brace. “Need to put that back on.”
No idea why I feel so disappointed. No, it’s just worry. Has to be. I help him put the brace back on and pull on the pants.
“Need to use the bathroom,” he mumbles, and he ignores my outstretched hand, bracing himself on the back of the sofa instead to get up. “Dammit, I…”
All the blood drains from his face. His knees go out from under him, and I barely manage to catch him in time and pull him back down on the couch. He lands half on top of me, and ow, he’s heavy.
“Fuck.” He pushes off me, arms shaking, his face ashen. “Shit.”
“Codeine can make you lightheaded.” I frown. “You were dizzy before you took it, though. When we arrived.” A thought hits me. “Did you eat well today?”
“I think I…” He shakes his head and gives me a sheepish smile. “I, uh. I forgot?”
“Forgot to eat? Come on. You’re a guy. Guys don’t forget about food.”
“Okay. The truth?” He wince
s. “I ran out of chow and couldn’t bring myself to call the guys to come over. So I ate a bar of chocolate Micah left yesterday.”
“That’s all?” Jeez. “But normally they visit and bring you food? Your friends?”
“Yeah. They’ve been great. But I’ve been in and out of hospital far too often in the past months. They work and need their own fucking free time. They have girlfriends, wives, families. I hate being a burden. Besides, Jesse is down with a bad cold and is stressed about working as a fully-fledged inker now, and what with expanding the tattoo shop and all… Everyone is in full stress mode.”
He rubs his face and sighs. He looks… defeated somehow, and I want to know more. Want to know why he’s been in and out of hospital so often, why he went out in the rain alone, why he has those tattoos and why his nose is slightly crooked, as if it was broken sometime in his past.
Where is his family? Does he have a girlfriend? Is he in college? Is he into sports—is that why he’s so strong?
“I think I’ll take your offer,” he says, startling me.
“What?”
