He nods. “I thought they were giving you my bed when they moved me. It freaked me out.”
“Why?”
Aidan starts to speak and then stops. His hands are apparently fascinating to him. He turns them over, examining them. He has scarred knuckles, as though he fights a lot or has a manual job. Yeah. He definitely has a manual job. There’s no way this dude sits in an office all day.
“Are you a thinker?” he asks suddenly.
The question catches me off guard. “What does that even mean?”
He shrugs. “You seem to forget we’re talking sometimes.”
“Not on purpose.”
“Didn’t say it was.”
His childish response suits me. It shouldn’t, but it does, and the draw to him intensifies enough for me to slide the chair closer to the bed. “I’m tired.”
“Me too,” he says. “So why aren’t we asleep?”
I consider what I’ve asked myself so many times and give him the only answer I’ve ever found. “Because we’re uncomfortable in our own skin, but that might be temporary for you.”
“But it isn’t for you.”
This time it’s not a question, but I nod anyway. “I’m a little messed up.”
He doesn’t answer for a moment, but he’s conquered his sudden fascination with his hands, oblivious to the fact that he’s sparked another obsession in me—that I can’t stop documenting his scars and committing them to my contrary memory.
“Are you feeling better?” he asks.
“Better from what?”
“Your infection. You were really sick.”
I start to cringe, and then I remember that he’s been sick too, and whatever he saw doesn’t seem to matter so much. “I feel better, but I’m not sure I like that. Being under the weather killed some time.”
I’ve never met anyone who understands statements like that, but Aidan nods. “Valid. Is the infection better, though?”
“A bit. They say it will take another five days to completely go.”
“How do you feel about that?”
I can think of no logical reason for him to ask me that question, but as I shoot him a quizzical glance, it clicks. He’s asking about my problems to deflect and distract from his own, and damn, if I don’t get that. “I meant what I said about being sick filling some time, but I don’t like having an infection. It makes me feel like I’ve got invaders under my skin, and the longer I have it, the longer I’m stuck here.”
“You want to go home,” he states.
“Yes, just like you.” Though I’m fairly sure that’s our only similarity. Despite what he says, Aidan is far stronger than me—bigand strong, with working hands, and the healthy skin of a man who spends most of his time outside. Not like me. Living alone scares the shit out of me, but perversely I can spend weeks at a time indoors. It’s as though my brain wants me to feel as terrible as possible, and only then will it leave me alone.
Aidan hums. It’s a deep, rumbling sound that comes from somewhere I want to be. “Who was the woman who came to see you?”
“What woman?”
His resting bitch face deepens to an actual frown. “You had a visitor, a woman... at least, I think you did. This morphine shit is sending me crackers.”
“Some of us are already there.”
“I want to be your friend.” Aidan clamps his mouth shut, as if his words have surprised him as much as they have me.
I let it slide. Perhaps itisthe morphine, or Stockholm syndrome. Whatever. It’s what we both need and I’ll call him mate all night long if it helps him feel better. “If the woman exists, then I don’t know who she is, which tells me she was probably a volunteer from the mental health charity the NHS uses for crisis management.”
