Austin frowns, but the expression is about confusion now, not pain. He lets go of my hand, making a swirling motion in the air, like he’s writing something with a pen, or else casting a spell. When I don’t react fast enough, he sighs heavily, then holds his hand up to his ear like he’s talking on the phone, then points at me.
“My phone? You want my phone?”
He nods and his motion changes to jabbing at the air, maybe like he’s badly typing a message.
I fumble for my phone, but manage to get it out and open the notes app, before setting it right in front of his extended finger. Watching him type is excruciating. He moves slowly, and every so often even the simple impact of his finger on the screen is enough to make him flinch. Finally, though, a question forms.
Race. I won?
I choke on a new sob.
“Don’t worry about it. It was a stupid idea. I didn’t think it would . . . that you would . . . who won doesn’t matter.”
But he frowns and punches some more at the phone.
Itly. Quali?
Then he points at me. It takes a second to decipher what he means.
“DidIqualify for the Olympics?”
He nods once, then watches me expectantly.
“No, I fell. You won. You’re the one who qualified. Remember?”
He frowns some more, brows bunching toward the centre of his face. He points at himself, then makes a circular shape over his chest, which I finally realize is meant to be a medal. An Olympic medal.
“Yeah,” I say. “You won. You’re going to the Olympics. I fell. Didn’t finish. Remember? You said...” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat. He asked about the race, and I assumed he meant our little match after the photoshoot. But if he doesn’t remember that he qualified, did he mean yesterday’s race? It feels like a lifetime ago.
“You remember the Big Final, right?” I ask. “You came first.”
I expect him to smile. Maybe give me a thumbs-up. Instead, Austin stares upward, blinking rapidly. His chest rises and falls in time with the hiss of the breathing machine near his bedside, and I want so badly to put my hand on his chest like I did on the hillside, to make sure I could still feel his heartbeat, but I’m afraid of hurting him.
Finally, he gives a gentle shake of his head, and my breath stops for what feels like the hundredth time today.
“You don’t remember the race?” A weird sensation shudders through my body and I mask it with a smile. “In that case, you were a disaster. Flamed out before qualis. It was a tragedy. Your worst performance this season. You’re lucky you have me because I was awesome. First in every heat and then the Big Final...” My tale fades away, because he’s watching me withthe same direct gaze, but there’s no laughter. No rolling his eyes at my blatant lies. I swallow a lump of dread that lodges in my throat. I could tell him anything. That Canada had been disqualified from all of sport. That aliens had landed on the mountaintop and abducted us. He doesn’t seem to be able to tell the difference between fact and fiction.
I squeeze his hand a little tighter, then brush a hand over his forehead, like I did in the woods while we waited for help. His frown deepens.
“I love you, Grimm,” I say, voice cracking slightly.
He raises his finger, tapping at the screen some more.
Lov Zed
Cold fear blankets my shoulders and I ask the question that will confirm the worry that gnaws at my guts.
“Do you remember last night? The bar? Karaoke? Do you remember...” My moment of bravery snuffs out and the question shrivels on my tongue. He’s looking at me, brow still knit tight in confusion, but when I don’t speak again, he shakes his head some more, and a single tear slips from his eye.
He doesn’t remember. Any of it. He said he loved Zed. Not Bear.
And what does it matter? I’m being incredibly selfish. I want him to remember coming his brains out on my dick when he can’t even breathe without a machine. Who cares about anything else?
I have to cough to clear my throat. “It’s okay. It’s fine.” Not to worry. He’s full of painkillers and other drugs. I’m lucky he remembers my name.
The lump rises painfully in my throat again and I swallow hard, but it won’t go away. I can’t breathe. It’s like the panic attack in the hotel room. I clutch my hands tightly in my lap, forcing my face to stay neutral. Austin can’t see what I’m feeling. Not now. Not like he is. He’ll remember. When the drugs wearoff and the pain subsides, he’ll remember what happened. He said he’s been in love with me for ages. He can’t forget that.
My smile hurts as I watch him. Slowly, he lifts his hand, pointing again. I hold the phone for him as he types.
