“How do you know each other?” I asked.
“We work together,” Kieran replied.
I glanced at Ghost. “Oh, you own real estate too?”
Out of the corner of his mouth, he spoke to Kieran. “Is that what you’re telling people?”
“What do you mean?” I questioned.
Kieran looked as though the top of his head might explode. His whole body slowly rotated toward Ghost, hisnotbestie who may or may not work in real estate.
Having a name like Ghost can’t be good for that though, right? Who would want to buy a house from someone named Ghost? I’d be afraid he’d haunt the place.
“Aaaaand that’s my cue to leave,” Ghost announced. Glancing at me, he said, “Nice meeting you, half-pint.”
“I was going to thank you for the doctor, but a half-pint like me has to conserve energy and being thankful is draining.”
Ghost hooted a laugh. “Shortandspicy. I dig it.”
“Digging your own grave,” Kieran told him.
Ghost slid me a sly wink. “Don’t let his bad attitude hurt your feelings. He’s just extra grumpy because he thought you were gonna bite it.”
My stare flew to Kieran who looked like a self-contained thunderstorm as he grabbed Ghost by the back of the neck and hauled him from the bedroom.
Silence blanketed the room, and I glanced over at the window coverings I didn’t know how to work and the sliver of daylight coming in around them. Without the distraction of Kieran and Ghost, I was able to fully take stock of my body and the way I was feeling. Noting the bandage covering my hand, I peeled it up, finding the new stitches in the fleshy part and the reddened skin around them.
Next, I fingered my forehead, realizing those stitches were covered up too. Lifting the blankets, I studied my knee, which was wrapped with a tan-colored bandage, but I was too tired to bother undoing it to take a look at the sutures Kieran said were there.
The only thing I was wearing was one of his button-up shirts, not even any boxers. Bunching the hem with my good hand, I pulled it up, but there was too much excess fabric for me to see my midsection. Dropping it, I reached for the buttons instead, fumbling with the small things because my fingers were sore.
Kieran walked into the bedroom, attention zeroing in on what I was doing. “Is there something wrong with the shirt?”
“I want to see the cuts,” I said, biting my lip in concentration.
“I already looked at them.”
Did he think because he saw them, I didn’t need to? They were onmybody.
Reaching my side, he leaned in, gently pulling my hands from the shirt. “You need to rest.”
“They hurt,” I admitted. “I want to see them so my brain will know they’re just cuts and I’m not going to die.”
There was a heavy beat of silence that his roughened voice cut through. “Youwill notdie.”
Surprised, I looked up. His nostrils were flared, teeth clenched, and eyes bloodshot. I recalled what Ghost said just a moment ago. “You really thought I was going to die?”
“No,” the single word was harsh. Then in a much more hostile tone, he added, “I’m not very good at keeping things alive.”
The words were a windstorm, sweeping away my insides and filling me instead with awe that I somehow meant something to him. No one ever had cared if I lived or died before. It was nice. But maybe it shouldn’t feel nice because it seemed to make him feel bad.
“It’s my anxiety,” I blurted.
His forehead creased. “What?”
“I don’t actually think I’m going to die. But the pain in my body and not having seen the injuries… my brain sort of fills in the unknown with the worst-case scenario.” Trying to explain anxiety and irrational thought to someone who didn’t experience it was like trying to paint a house with a Q-tip.
Not that I’ve ever actually done that. But it seems like it would be hard, right?
