I can make out his face now, but just barely. I’m not good at reading someone’s expression on a good day—people are confusing—but I have no idea what he’s thinking.
“You can sleep next to me,” he says, his voice even quieter.
A chill runs through my body, but in a good way. Nodding, though I’m not sure he can see it, I round to the other side of the bed. I’m about to climb in when he says, “No, wait. Not in your street clothes! Gross.”
I grin, though I’m not sure he can see it. I’d have gotten up once he was asleep and changed. Whatever his revulsion at the idea, I’m betting mine is stronger. I wasn’t about to actually getunderthe covers in my day clothes.
“Please tell me you aren’t one of those heathens who wear street clothes to bed,” he says, appalled.
I laugh. “No. I’m not. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
He sighs. “I won’t be. No matter what you wear.” A second later, he adds, “Or don’t wear.”
I head to the closet and change, then take a minute in the bathroom to go through my nightly routine. He’s still awake when I climb into bed, trying to keep some distance between us, so I’m not crowding his personal space.
He shifts. Do I imagine that he gets a little closer?
“Good night, Ox,” he murmurs.
“Oxley,” I correct. “Good night.”
I’m not entirely sure I’ll fall asleep being this close to him. In the dark, I can only barely make out his shape and the basic features of his face. I know when he’s fallen asleep because his breathing is even and his heart monitor is steady.
I stare for a long time. But eventually, I fall asleep too.
5
HUNTLEY
A coupleof days go by in this way. Oxley carries me to the bathroom when I need to use the facilities or brush my teeth. I spend a lot of time watching him as he works silently at the desk in the corner. He opens the curtains for me to see outside. He’s also brought me a handheld game to play and a reading device.
Sometimes we watch television together, lying in bed. We talk a little, though he still answers, ‘Who are you?’ with his name alone. It’s both amusing and frustrating since I’m fairly sure he thinks that actually answers the question.
Oxley might be an uncommon name, but it doesn’t ring any bells. Should it? I’m not entirely sure, though I try to remember. A quick search of ‘Who is Oxley?’ online doesn’t bring up anything except that I’ve spelled his name wrong. I even went so far as to ask him how he spells it. Though he looked at me perplexed, he spelled it out.
On what I presume is the third or fifth day I’ve been here, since my sleeps all seem to run together, my phone rings. It startles me since I haven’t heard it in ages. I shift in bed, trying to find it onthe nightstand. Oxley’s there in an instant, as he always is when I want to move, so he can help me.
I’m going to be spoiled by all this attention and attentiveness.
I answer just before the call ends.
“Where the hell are you?” Oren asks, his voice shrill.
My mouth opens to answer, but I don’t actually know where I am. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“What’s wrong? Huntley, you fucking vanished after there was a shooting in your neighborhood! You haven’t answered your calls or texts or been online! We’ve been worried sick!”
“Oh,” I respond lamely. “Sorry.”
“The hospitals haven’t heard of you. Your parents are losing their minds. Shelton has put up missing posters.Where are you?!”
“I was shot,” I say, and, hearing the way he inhales, I quickly add, “It’s fine! I’m fine.” Am I fine? Jesus, I haven’t even asked. I look up at Oxley and am sure I’m looking a little wild, since my expression makes him distressed. “I’m safe somewhere and healing.”
“That’s stupidly vague. Where. Are. You?” Oren insists.
I look outside as if that tells me anything. I can see nothing but greenery and a building through the trees. “Where am I?” I ask Oxley.
“My apartment,” he answers, “in Oak Hills.”
