As Lie the Dead

I peek one eye open. I’m facing the wall and its familiar stained wallpaper—what was once white and yellow daisies. Not even close to my taste, but I’m never home enough to care. Not until lately.

My head feels like dead weight as I roll to my other side. A fresh glass of orange juice is on the bedside table—or rather the old orange crate that serves as one. I like the simplicity of it. Next to the juice is a half-empty box of tissues. I reach for one and pull. The damned thing snags and sends the entire box tumbling to the floor.

“Fuck,” I croak.

I scoot closer to the edge of the bed and peek down. It’s tumbled pretty far away, too far to reach. My nose is starting to drip. I need a tissue. I just can’t make my dead-weight body get up and retrieve them. Frustration makes me growl, which tickles deep in my clogged chest. The ensuing coughs wrack my entire body and leave my throat raw, aching.

Just kill me now.

A tissue dangles in front of me. I follow the hand that holds it to a wrist, up an arm, until I’m looking at Wyatt through bleary eyes.

“You dropped these,” he says.

I grunt, take it, and blow. Hard enough to make me dizzy. I slump back against the pillow. The damp tissue falls away. I close my eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. I can’t sleep with it spinning like this.

The mattress sinks. A cool hand presses against my steaming forehead. Feels good.

“Ash says you haven’t eaten all day.”

“Hurts.”

“You need to eat, Evy.”

“No.”

“If you don’t eat, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”

I snap my eyes open. I hate the hospital. Despise it. I’d rather stitch my own wounds, and I usually do. He’s holding two red pills in his palm. I eye them. More medicine. I hate pills, too, and he knows it. He’s pushing again, like he’s been pushing me all month. Harder than usual all spring, actually.

I once asked Jesse if I’d done something to piss off Wyatt, but Jesse said he didn’t think so. Wyatt was just in a mood. Monthlong man PMS, I guess.

If those red pills make my head stop feeling like a bowling ball, I’ll forgive him his bad mood. I open my mouth. He pops them in, then holds the juice while I sip enough to get the pills down. The juice stings my throat and sits cool in my stomach. I flop against the pillow and close my eyes, hoping he’s satisfied.

“Ash is making some gelatin,” he says, patting my forehead with a tissue. “You’re going to eat it.”

“Gross.”

“It’s cherry.”

“Grosser.”

“Evy, I’m serious. Eat it, or I’m driving you to the hospital myself.”

I crack one eye open. Peer under my lashes at him. His mouth is set, lips pressed thin. I know that look. He’s dead serious. And I don’t have the strength to fight him. “Fine.”

With the battle won, I expect him to leave. He stays.

He stays through another coughing fit. He hands me tissue after tissue, until I’m sure my head can’t expel any more snot without turning itself inside out. He holds a basin while I throw up half the gelatin I’m forced to eat. I curse at him because he’s convenient, and he continues to chatter about nonsensical things.

More juice and gelatin, a few saltine crackers, and lots of monologuing later, my fever breaks sometime during the night. Wyatt stays with me through it, holding my hand and always ready with a tissue. A constant, comforting presence.

He’s gone when I wake the next morning from a dreamless sleep.

I stare at the faded wallpaper, more able to think now, and wonder if I dreamed him. After four years and dozens of injuries, this is the first time he’s kept vigil at my bedside. For the flu, of all things—not even a life- threatening wound. It seems silly, and yet there it is.

Something has changed, and I’m helpless to understand it. So I’ll just ignore it. Pretend it never happened. Pretend nothing’s changed.

Even though we both know something has.

Chapter Seventeen

Later … 

I was on fire. Every inch of my body ached and burned—back and shoulders that lay on something soft, face caressed by external force, legs surrounded by support. Nothing was left untouched. Even my insides hurt, as though taken out, smashed to a pulp, and then tossed back in.

The pain meant I wasn’t dead. It was just too much to handle, so I drifted. Up and down on waves of agony and itching, highs and lows that carried me back and forth from sleeping to near-waking. I thought I heard voices, smelled smells, felt touches on my skin. I tried to talk a few times and probably only grunted. My tongue was swollen, throat dry and sore.

No, it felt better to sleep.

And then the overwhelming need to vomit forced me to wakefulness. My entire upper body twisted sideways, and I dry-heaved into something soft. Cottony. A blanket. Something warm touched my face and shoulder. Spoke indecipherable words in a gentle voice.

Bolts of lightning shot down my legs. I stiffened, tried not to move as heaves dissolved into quiet sobs. Hot tears scorched my eyes; I squeezed them shut against the uncontrollable weakness. Weight shifted the soft blanket … no, mattress.

I shot up in a tangle of arms, blankets, shouts, and pain. My legs hollered at the sudden movement, furious and blinding. Someone grabbed my flailing wrists. I forced my eyelids to peel apart, even as the voice became more clear.

“Evy, it’s me. Calm down, please.”

A blurry shape was outlined against the light of a pale wall. I blinked several times. The voice, soothing and soft, placed the details my addled brain couldn’t quite focus on its own. My racing heart calmed, only to speed up again. Not from fear this time.

“You’re safe,” Wyatt said.

I stared, not quite believing it, even when my eyes completely focused. He was sitting on the bed next to me, hands clamped around my wrists, black eyes wide with concern. A flurry of emotions blasted me—joy, surprise, confusion, and most of all, stark relief.

He loosened his hold on my wrists and I fell against his chest, flinging my arms around his waist. I inhaled his scent, felt his warmth on my cheek. He was really there, arms around me, chin resting on the top of my head. I held tight with what little strength I had, communicating with touch what I couldn’t seem to manage with words. Then through the relief came the pain again, white-hot and itchy irritation. I groaned, pushed away, and fell back against a fluffy pillow.

“Take it easy, Evy. Your legs are still healing.”

I scrunched my eyes shut and sucked in several deep breaths. My stomach felt twisted inside out, but less likely to try and jump out of my mouth. I was aware of other things, as well—the gentle swish of water through nearby pipes, the faint odor of fabric softener in the clean sheets, the lack of anything resembling a burning factory or VW bus.

“Where?” I croaked.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

I cracked one eyelid. He brushed the back of his knuckles across my cheek. I automatically leaned into the touch, amazed he was even there. A little pale, but otherwise healthy for someone who’d recently had surgery. A lot had happened, and I wanted details.