Hansel 4(14)

I shut my eyes.

Her hands are on my cheeks and head. They’re so soft and cool. “Lana said you’ve got a fever,” she says softly. “How are your hands? I know they must hurt. Especially this one.” She touches my left shoulder.

She strokes my face. I should flex my fingers, because I deserve nothing but pain.

“Are you tired? You want to go to sleep? Lana can give you something if you need it.”

I peek my eyes open. “No.”

“Okay.” She sits closer to me and strokes my hair.

I know I should tell her. It would be smart to let her hate me.

But I don’t.

I let myself feel her hands on me. This is what I used to dream about. Leah, touching me. I used to wonder why I didn’t have more problems. Drugs or drinking. More than fucking. But it was always Leah holding me together.

I want to tell her that. To thank her. But I feel sick. Lying to her. I’m a sick person. She doesn’t know what kind of person I am.

My thoughts congeal, and in the next second, I can tell I’m going to be sick. I open my eyes. Grab a pillow, press it to my chest, and retch on the sterile, white fabric. Holding onto the pillow hurts my hands, which only makes me feel sicker.

“I don’t feel well. I want to stay with you, Shelly!”

“Not this time, Lukey.. I’m sorry…”

“You’re getting more pain meds,” Leah’s sister says. “You need to sleep, okay?”

I feel her move my IV line, and I lie still. What’s wrong with me? I don’t need medicine for pain. I just need pain. And yet, I don’t move as someone drags a towel over my neck and chest. A warm towel comes down over my face, and I feel the bite of moving air as some of the blankets piled on me are moved. My left hand shifts, and I grit my teeth.

“Sorry.” Brisk hands touch my left side. “We’ll need to re-bandage this.”

“I’m sorry…” Leah’s voice is near my ear. Her soft hand strokes my face.

Her sister messes with my hand. I try not to pay attention, but it hurts like fire, making my head and face and neck feel hot.

“You can…go,” I say between my labored breaths.

Silence swells up. “You know I don’t want to go.”

“Should.”

Her gentle hand on my bicep contrasts sickly to the pain in my left hand. “I love taking care of you,” she says. “I want to be here.”

Lana lifts my left arm at the elbow, and I feel the coolness of a pillow being pushed under it. “All done. Leah, keep me posted.”

I breathe deeply, with my eyes shut. I can sense her leaving: Lana.

When I open my eyes again, it’s just Leah beside me. The moment is such a freakish parallel with another one from my past. I feel almost dizzy thinking of it.

“Lucas, you’ve got no one. Is there anyone who cares for you?”

“I’m not leaving. Please don’t try to make me.” Her soft hand leaves my skin, and then I feel the mattress indent with her weight. Moving carefully around my right hand, still propped on pillows, she settles in beside me. We are hip-to-hip, shoulder-to-shoulder. I feel the fabric of her clothes against my fevered skin. Then her gentle arm around my chest. She rests her cheek on my shoulder and breathes my name.

Her body is soft and warm. Mine’s so cold I’m shivering.



*



Leah



Almost two years. That’s how long we shared the wall. I thought I knew so much about him. I was wrong. I see now, what he did. He collected facts about me, but he was greedy with the exchange of them. Because I knew his habits—because I knew his footfall and the feel of his hand, the softness of his hair and the rumble of his voice—I was fooled.

For Luke to have told Mother about me, he’d have had to’ve known me. Before her house.

It’s been two days since we left Mother’s house, and I’m still puzzling it out.

I’ve got quite the backdrop for my research. I haven’t told him yet, because Raymond suggested that I not until he was on the mend, but we’re at Luke’s own house. Not the club—his house. He’s got a house.

I’m standing in his kitchen now. A real kitchen with a corkboard countertop, black cabinets, and shiny stainless steel fixtures. In the refrigerator, there is key lime Greek yogurt and heart-healthy butter. Also, cherry Coke.

But the biggest surprise by far is a boy named Echo: Luke’s son.

Yeah. Luke has a son.

Echo is eight, and I’m pretty sure he’s not Luke’s biological child because his skin is dark. But Raymond hasn’t been here much, and Echo’s nanny, an elderly woman named Hally, doesn’t seem like the right person to ask—especially since Echo is usually with her.