“Do you want the answer I would give to a friend or the answer I would give to someone treating me?”
“How about the truth?”
I snort dryly.The fucking truth, then.
“It’s a nightmare, Nate. My muscles are slowly dying and there is nothing I can do to stop it. My spine is wrecked, I can barely move my hips and my legs don’t carry me anymore. I’m on so much pain medication that I’m constantly high and I have to rotate between pills so I can still feel the effects. I’m struggling to hold and open stuff with my hands and I think in a few months I won’t even be able to use my keyboard to write my novels anymore. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night because I can’t breathe properly. My heart doesn’t work how it should. Not even a week ago, I was stuck in my chair all night because straightening my legs was too painful.
“And the worst thing? The daily lies. I can’t let Prueknowhow bad it is. She already gives me too much, if she finds out how much pain I’m in, she will stop living for herself completely. I’m already a burden to her. She lost our family’s love and respect because she chose me. I need this to stop. I need her to find her own happiness. To live for herself. I want to buy her a house on the beach in a place where she can make friends. Where she can find a job she likes, or just spend her day drawing and painting. I don’t care, as long as she’s happy. But she won’t be if she sees my pain. So I lie. I pretend that I’m okay. I distract her worries with all the smiles I have. And I’m exhausted.”
I take a deep breath to keep the tears at bay. I’m still high from the morphine I took right after I landed. But she’s not here right now, and I’m relieved. Relieved that I don’t have to smile, to lie, to pretend that I don’t want to die every. Fucking. Minute. Of every. Fucking. Day.
“She doesn’t know.”
It’s not a question but I nod anyway. His gaze is locked on me, eyes narrowed, face tense.
“Is she joining you here?”
“She’ll be here tomorrow,” I sigh. “We have a car, so she’s driving here from Seattle. She stopped for the night.”
His shoulder tense but he nods and I see him gritting his teeth. “I’ll treat you,” he finally says, turning slightly to look over the ocean. “I still remember everything I learned about Steinert disease, and I live next door so I can come by when needed in addition to the recommended sessions. I assume you found a neurologist or a genetician?”
“Dr. Patel,” I answer, my eyes widening.
“Good. She’s a Steinert specialist.” He nods his approval. “Did you contact nurses and personal care workers?”
His tone is formal and matter-of-factly. I’m not his—former—friend right now, but a patient, and it hurts a little.I wish I could go back to that stupid day.
“There will be nurses coming two times a day, but I didn’t call any personal care workers…” I frown.
“I’ll give you some numbers, call them today. If you want to stop relying on your sister so much, you need personal care workers.”
I fumble with my hands. I need to tell him. He has to know that he will be doing all of this for nothing. I can’t let him get too invested in my care.
He takes his phone out of his back pocket and starts typing. He is not saying anything else.
“I know it’s too late,” I start, unsure, “but I’m sorry. For what I said. I’ve never thought you were worthless. I never thought you were a… Manwhore. I… I just freaked out. I saw you there, with my little sister, and I jumped to conclusions. She told me, you know? That you were just helping her. Posing for some portraits sometimes.” His eyes flicker to mine and the muscle in his jaw ticks. “But I was your roommate, I knew that you were… seeing a few girls. And when I saw you alone with her, without your shirt on, I lost it, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I’m just—I’m sorry.”
We’re both silent for a long time. Him, leaning his back against the railing, not typing on his phone anymore and staring at me with cold eyes. Me, fumbling with anything I can grab on to. The control buttons of my chair, the hem of my tee-shirt, my own fingers. I force myself to not look away. He’s right to be pissed. I’ve insulted him and never apologized even when I realized that I was wrong. For nine. Fucking. Years.
“You know what pained me the most?” He asks finally and I shake my head slowly. “I might have been a manwhore, sleeping around and not caring about anyone I had sex with, but you were my best friend. Your sister was off-limits, and it never mattered if I wanted her or not because I never would have acted on it, and especially not behind your back.”
My throat is dry and I reach for the water bottle in the cup-holder attached to the armrest of my chair.
“What hurt was that you hadso little faithin me, you thought I could do that.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s no excuse, but I was in a… weird place at that time.” He scoffs with a not so subtle shake of his head. “Suddenly you were being secretive about your comings and goings and I was pissed off about my break-up and I needed to spend time with you, and… Well that’s not the point. But then I found you two in her dorm, and you were shirtless and… I just started adding things together. I thought you were all weird and elusive because you were trying to get in her pants, and that maybe you felt guilty and…” I release a heavy sigh. “I jumped to conclusions. But she’s my baby sister, and she was younger than us, and I felt the need to protect her from…”
“From me,” he interrupts. “Because I’m such a worthless manwhore.”
I bury my head in my hands. “Look, I’m sorry. But she’s my sister, and she was nineteen at the time, and I just lost it. I didn’t mean anything I told you and I’ve regretted it ever since.”
He rolls his eyes and turns around, gripping the railing of the terrace overlooking the beach. There’s a tense silence where I just hesitate to keep talking, keep apologizing. But he breaks the silence with a long, tired sigh.
“Nine years, Jack. For nine fucking years, I’ve heard your words every time I thought about you or Prudence. Every time I look at the copies of the drawings she made of me for her art classes. That I’m just worthless. That you think I wouldn’t deserve someone like her.”
His voice is raspy, raw with old pain. I’ve done this. I’ve hurt him, made him doubt himself. Words can cause so much destruction that some people—me—should not be allowed to talk sometimes.
“I’ve read all your books, you know?” he says with a dry chuckle. “I buy them on their release date. I can almost hear you telling the stories sometimes. See her sketching the cover and the illustrations you sometimes put in thenovels.”
