A fucked up thought hits me: What if I’m in a psych ward?
I shut my eyes. Would Leah do that to me?
She might.
After what happened at Mother’s…
Shame tightens my stomach. I can’t believe that shit. How stupid was I, taking her to that room? I had this fucked up idea that I could make some better memories there or some such shit. I didn’t plan to fuck her there. I didn’t even think about my hand when I laced mine through hers.
But when we finished, and I saw the blood…
It reminded me too much of Mother.
Shortly after I got there, when things first got twisted…
I bite my cheek and drop my head down. I’d like to rub my face, but…yeah. My hands hurt like a motherfucker.
They hurt worse as I wonder how much glass was in them. I laugh a little, a crazy fucking laugh, because I think I must have broken every mirror in the bathroom. Probably scared the shit out of Leah.
Shame again. My stomach churns.
My eyes lift briefly to the camera before I pull them down. I have what I think is a memory—rather than a dream—of Leah coming in here sometime recently with a baby monitor in her hand. Has she stopped watching me?
I raise my hands slowly, just to see how they feel. I need to take a piss. Both hands throb, but it’s manageable. I rock my hips and scoot on my ass over to the side of the bed, where I hang my legs off.
That’s when I notice the print on the wall in front of me. Blue is the Color of Love. I bought the reproduction years ago.
A glance around the room confirms that. The bed I’m on is queen-sized, a Victorian, walnut piece made in 1862. Which means I’m in the downstairs guest room. My heart trips. I don’t remember being here.
But so much worse than that: If I’m at my house, Leah is gone.
I bring my right arm up to my head and rest my forehead in my elbow. My lungs feel rusty when I draw deep breaths. My hands begin to throb, but the pain is blunted by whatever was in my IV.
I slide off the bed, and immediately sink down to the rug.
I’m breathing hard. I try to think around my panic. There’s a bathroom on the other side of the tall, wood door behind the blue chair a few feet away.
I think of bathrooms; mirrors; blood.
I use my arms for balance as I get to my feet, stunned not that they hurt, but that I hate it.
I like pain. It usually makes me feel more in control, but as I stand here in my guest room, hungering for Leah, all I feel is empty. So goddamned cold and empty.
I grit my teeth as I move slowly toward the bathroom door. What did I tell her? I confessed some things; that must be it. I told her some of my truths, and it scared her off. That’s good, I try to tell myself.
“Luke?”
Her voice is like an arrow to my heart. For a whole second, I swear it stops beating. I turn, naked and struggling for air.
Leah is standing in the doorway. The first thing I notice, other than how much I love her face, is her shirt: it’s a Pace University sweatshirt, and it’s mine. My blood warms.
“Nice sweatshirt.”
I fucking love the way it hugs her breasts. I look her over, appreciating her ragged out jeans and her fuzzy-looking yellow socks.
She brought her things to my house…
Fuck.
Her mouth makes a little “o”, which turns into a bashful smile. “I hope you don’t mind too much. Hally likes it colder than I do.”
Heat winds through me, from my chest down to my toes. Leah has met Hally. Which means she has met Echo. My usual obsession with my privacy evaporates in an instant. I want to ask her everything. I want to beg her to bring Echo to me.
Instead, I try to ration my shallow breaths and mask my runaway feelings.
I return her small smile with one of my own. “That she does. That’s why I leave the sweatshirt in the family room.”
She’s looking at me in the best possible way, with her head tilted a little to one side and her mouth curved with satisfaction. “You’re a showman, Edgar. I’m surprised.”
I shrug, hurting my hands. My knees start to quiver.
Leah hurries over to me. She takes my elbow in her hand as if she’s used to touching me however she likes. “You look a little pale. I can help you to the bathroom. I won’t stay or anything.”
No fucking way.
It’s what I should say.
I don’t need her help. I’m not an invalid.
And yet…I find myself leaning on her.
I should be embarrassed, I think as she steps into the small half bath with me. I acted like a fucking whack job in front of her. I have auditory memories of me crying out her name. Not because I had my dick inside her. Because I needed her. Shit, I’ve been so strung out these last…
“How long have I been out?” I ask.
“About two days now.” I widen my eyes, and she leans her head against my upper arm. “You were sleeping. The surgeon who operated on your left hand said you’d need a pretty strong painkiller. So many little shards of…well, just that you would.”