Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 65376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65376 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
That’s when it hits me full force that when he finds out, this is over.
* * *
He sleeps all that night, and I sit by his bed. No one asks if I want to. Who would need to do that now?
In the beginning of the video, you can’t see his face well. But I know he’s crying, lying on that bed in the curtained ER area.
The first thing that can be heard is his voice as he says, “Vance?” In the vid, you can’t tell he’s shaking—but I remember he was. He says, “Don’t go.” It’s so soft, it sounds almost slurred. But it sounds like Luke.
I say, “I won’t.”
He nods—you can see that, even though the camera’s shooting from between the curtains, and it’s maybe fifteen feet away. The person moves in closer, showing more of Luke’s face—and mine.
I lean over. Stroke his hair back like a lover would.
I lean in close, so you can only hear some of the words as I say, “It’s okay, You’re okay.”
I kiss his cheek. Then the videographer walks to the curtain and zoom in on the chart that’s attached.
The tabloid blurs out everything but his name.
I watch the video on repeat as I sit in the same chair where I sat the morning he rubbed on my shoulder. I’m right by the bed. He doesn’t move much, though, and I’m glad.
There’s a nurse that pops in twice to check stuff. It’s an older woman. She’s so good, she doesn’t wake him up
“He’s doing just fine. How are you, darling?”
She’s got a Scottish accent. I didn’t expect that.
“I’m good. Thank you.”
“You get some sleep yourself, my dear. It’s a stressful moment for you. And it’s not your fault.”
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“It’s sincerity.”
She leaves, and I get up and pace. So everybody and their fucking brother knows. A few minutes later, I get a text from Hakim.
Vance. I saw you in the video with the pastor. You guys involved? You okay?
I set the phone down on the bed and walk into the bathroom, where I stand at the counter looking at myself in the mirror. I try to tell myself that this will be a good way to really put this whole thing with Luke the ground. Put it to bed? I’m so tired, I don’t fucking know. I rub my face.
I decide to get a shower. It’s been days. I think at least two. I’m so damn exhausted. And it’s not getting better. When I tell him—if I get the chance to before he hears some other way—the fallout is going to be bad. He’ll be upset. Probably angry, too. It’s understandable. It was my fault he got outed. I’m the one who loved him up right there where anyone—any creep, at least—could see us. I’m the one that wasn’t careful.
I turn the shower on and try to focus on feeling the water hitting my neck and back. When the door’s pulled open, I nearly have a fucking heart attack. And then I see who it is.
“Luke?”
He’s white-knuckling the door, looking like an apparition with his pale face and his sharp-edged physique. Just one glance, and I can see he’s shaking.
I come toward him, then stop. I’m wet. He steps underneath the faucet with me. I barely get my arms around him before his knees buckle.
“Fuck.” I grunt, but I get us both down to the shower floor with no injuries. Luke wraps his arms around me, his hands shaking as he wraps my head against his throat.
“Sorry.” His mouth presses to my temple. Then he leans his head back. I realize he’s drinking water.
“Hey, man.” I spread my palm over his upper back. He’s smaller in my arms. Just a little leaner than me, but he’s always been so fucking bulky. He feels like a different person.
“I saw the video.”
“What?”
“You left your phone…on the bed.”
I hold my head, forgetting for a second how weak he is. Without my arm around his shoulder to steady him, Luke loses his balance. He’s been lying in bed for almost two weeks, if you count the flu time before he got sepsis. I cup his shoulder and shut my eyes. I wish I could deny it, but…
“I’m so damn sorry. I was carless. I—I don’t know what to say.”
“You’ve always been careless.” He sounds breathless, and I he is; after those words, he stops to breathe. He adds, “Of yourself.” His eyes meet mine. “Now,” he whisper-hisses, “way beyond the pale.”
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I didn’t kiss her,” he says, shaking slightly from what I think must be exertion. “She…kissed me.”
My chest aches as I hug him against me. “It’s okay. That’s all behind us.”
I’m a liar, though, because my heart is pounding and my head is spinning—that he knows. That he got up and walked in here to tell me.