Does he haveanyonehelping him? He’s always seemed so stubbornly independent, and that can be dangerous when your life is turned upside down.
“When do you see the specialist?”
He hesitates. “The end of January.”
I swallow down what I really want to say:Are you kidding me? Three more months of torturing yourself in silence?
Not on my watch.
Vince doesn’t need to suffer through this alone.
“Well, I’m here, okay? Whatever you need.”
Vince huffs. “I don’t need pity.”
“Then I won’t offer it,” I say, leaning in. “I’m offering my support.”
The larger man exhales hard. He reaches for his boots, but stops, rubbing two fingers together like they’re bothering him.
I untie his shoes, then gently tug them off, being careful not to touch his feet. Vince grimaces in pain, barely letting each foot touch the floor.
“How long have you had symptoms?” I don’t want to push my luck with too many questions, but now I need to know. All those nights of watching him suffer at work make total sense now. He has to be miserable standing all day.
“Two years, give or take.”
I look up at him.Two years?“And when did you find out?”
“A month ago.”
I touch his knee, shaking my head slightly. “I’m not going to pretend to know what it’s like, but that really sucks. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”
“Like I said, I won’t know for sure until January. But from everything I’ve read, the symptoms fit.”
I want to ask more, but Vince grips the handrail and pulls himself up, so I get out of his way. I resist offering support. He doesn’t want pity, but he clearly isn’t thrilled about needing help.
He hobbles to the couch to sit down, arm landing on a small stack of pillows. That’s when it clicks—the stale smell upstairs, the barely used bed. Even the bloody tissues.Don’t trust myself shaving.
Vince really has been living off his couch. And if I had to guess, it’s because of the stairs.
I look around, seeing his apartment in a new light. The clothes, which I thought were a mess, are actually divided into two piles—clean and dirty. At least half the clean pile is folded too, like he at least tries to care. A Taco Bell bag is on the floor by the couch, but for the most part, it’s pretty clean. Just… thrown together. Like he keeps everything he needs within reach.
“Can you hand me that bottle of lotion?”
It’s clear the last thing Vince wants to do is ask for help, but he must be desperate enough for whatever it is.
When I see the bottle on the coffee table, I get why. It’s a pain-relief cream.
I offer it to him.
“I have an idea,” I say on a whim. “And I want you to think about it before you say no.”
Vince lifts his gaze.
I point to the stairs. “This place isn’t safe for you.”
He starts to argue, so I hold up a hand.
“It has two flights of stairs, Vince. It’s not safe. So I want you to come stay with me.”
