“Don’t be a jerk. It’s your birthday and you’ve had a shitty night at work. When you get home, I’m going to bake you a cake. For breakfast. Or dinner. Or whatever the hell meal it is for you right now.”
“I’m pretty sure all we have in the house is bread, milk, and vodka.”
“Incorrect. We’ve got everything we need to bake a delicious and fucking scrumptious cake for you,” Sam informed me, sounding more lucid than she had in months. A note of pride entered her voice. “I stopped by the store yesterday and got everything we’d need.” Her breath hitched. She let out a long breath. “Before I…”
She trailed off, and there was a long moment of awkward silence.
I could fill in the blank well enough, though. Before she’d started drinking for the day. That was what she’d been about to say—or somewhere in that ballpark, at least.
We both understood she couldn’t quite make herself stop once she got started. And I knew that yelling at her, getting upset, hiding her booze, giving ultimatums, or trying any number of other tactics wasn’t going to work. That was the shitty part—Icouldn’tstop it. I had tried once, and it had nearly destroyed our relationship. And Sam was all I had—the only person I still gave a damn about. But more importantly, I was allshe had, too. There was no one else left who cared about what happened to her.
“Sam, it’s okay. We can talk about it. I’m not going to get mad. I promise.”
“Look, just for this one day, it’s not about my bullshit. It’s aboutyourbullshit.”
“Gee, thanks,” I said, but I laughed again. I smiled, too—and I even meant it. “Look, you can try baking me a cake if you want. I’ll have the fire department and poison control on standby, but if you bake it, I’ll attempt to eat it.”
“You’re an ass.”
“As your brother, it’s in my contract. I have to be. Sorry about it.”
“Eli?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m really sorry about your patient.”
“I know. It’s okay,” I lied.
It wasn’t.
But it wasn’t her fault, was it? She wasn’t the one who hadn’t been good enough—fast enough, perfect enough—to save him.
* * *
“We’re going out,” Sam announced twelve hours later. I gripped my steaming cup of coffee in my hands, even though it was almost ten at night. After getting home, I’d ended up helping her bake the cake, but it had still somehow turned out mostly inedible. We’d had a good time trying to follow the recipe she’d found online, though. Afterward, I’d crashed for nine hours solid, totally dead to the world.
And then I dreamt ofhimagain.
I had no idea who he was to me, or why I kept dreaming of him, but I had for years. Just like always, he wore a deepemerald-green tunic with elaborate gold embroidery that looked brand-new, like he was all dressed up for Halloween. His too-bright blue eyes were the same color and intensity as a midday sky someone had done up in technicolor, and his features were nearly too delicate for a man. But the way he touched me—filled with hunger and haste and desperation—was anything but delicate.
But I loved that, didn’t I? Enough that I couldn’t stop myself from breathing his name over and over, like a prayer, right into his ear while I gripped him close and touched him, too.
Nicolas. Nicolas. Nicolas—
The moment I woke up, I felt the same extraordinary loss I always did, like a piece of my own soul had been scooped out. And just like always, the pain in my chest came back. It was a sharp, searing sensation that usually faded into the background almost at once upon awakening. But today, it was still there—a persistent dull ache, like someone had gotten ahold of my heart and decided to give it a good, prolonged squeeze.
I had run every test on myself I could think of over the years—one of the dubious perks of being a doctor—and there was nothing medically wrong with me. Whatever this was, it had to be something else.
Sam eyed me. “Eli, are you listening?”
I blinked at her. “Um. Sure. Yes.”
“Lies.” She took a gulp of her own coffee, then smacked her lips. “Anyway. Get dressed. We’re going dancing.”
“I still feel exhausted. The last thing I want to do right now is dance.”
She glared at me. Oddly enough, she wasn’t glassy-eyed at all—which probably meant her coffee was just coffee this time.
