The thought filled him with dread. But as much as he railed and fought, he always slipped back into the mist.
Sometimes the mist parted, forcing him back to the cold, bright place. He hated it there. It was worse than the darkness.
The white lights brought the pain. His head hurt. And his mouth was so dry. His lips cracked, bleeding when he tried—failed—to speak. There was something foreign in his nose, in his throat, but he couldn’t move it. He was trapped.
Sometimes a familiar voice spoke from beyond the lights. Sometimes it whined. Sometimes demanded. It was a male voice. A voice he knew well. And then the voice said, “Fuck, Josh.I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to be like this—” And threw him into a memory.
They were boys. Josh was sixteen, Liam was twelve. Their father was long gone. Their mother worked two jobs, sometimes three. She looked so tired. Sometimes it seemed that only her grit held her together.
She was cleaning a house that day. Josh had gone out to grab some pasta, cheese, and a few wilted vegetables on special at the corner supermarket. He was hungry all the time. But he’d managed to get a part-time job in the local pet store, and he’d just seen his first paycheck hit his account. He wanted to celebrate. And if there was something hot to eat when his mother came home, they could sit together and enjoy it. Maybe they could watch something on the telly. She always helped him with his homework, even when it was late. She always came to say goodnight and listened to his day. But they seldom just sat.
But when he got back to the flat, his brother was gone. Liam hadn’t stayed sitting at the small kitchen table doing the math problems Josh had left him, and, infuriatingly, Josh knew exactly where he was. Liam had wanted to play football with friends down at the park. He’d refused to listen to Josh’s reasoning that it was nearly dark. That the park was strewn with litter and broken glass on a good day. And that the friends he wanted to meet could make trouble out of air.
Josh dumped the groceries on the faded vinyl counter, pulled his coat back on, and stalked back into the night, mumbling curses. Liam always thought he had a hard life. Always wanted to complain. But he never wanted to do his share of the work. And it didn’t help that he was so bloody good-looking. That everyone had always wanted to help the angelic baby with dark curls and blue eyes… even when Liam was a moody preteen and as far from angelic as it was humanly possible to get.
When Josh found him, it was even worse than he’d imagined. Liam—eyes red and face streaked with dirt—was kicking his foot next to a pair of police officers and an enraged motorist. Football had devolved into throwing rocks, and one had hit a passing Mercedes.
The other boys had run, but Liam, for all his faults, always stayed. He’d taken responsibility. And he’d looked up at Josh, looking so young and afraid, and said, “Fuck, Josh. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t meant to be like this.”
It wasn’t meant to be like this.
Fuck.
The words churned in his gut, roiling and unsettled. They meant something. Something he knew was awful.
It was a relief when he slipped back into the darkness and the memories—and the words—slowly disappeared into shadow and confusion.
Time passed. And when he finally opened his eyes in Ellie’s room once more, the recollections of the bright place and the strange dreams he’d had there were nothing more than mist, slowly evaporating to nothing.
Her cottage was surrounded by the deep, turbulent darkness of late night and a storm lashing against the roof and walls. Rain poured down the windows and gurgled in the gutters as the wind roared through the trees. And the house creaked as it took its beating.
Ellie was lying in her bed, on top of the covers, still wearing a T-shirt and yoga pants. Her legs were curled, but one hand was flung out. As if she’d collapsed, too tired to drag blankets over her body, and fallen asleep still reaching for something she couldn’t quite grasp.
She looked cold. The skin beneath her eyes was dark and bruised, even in sleep. He crept closer and risked smoothing a lock of honey-colored hair out of her eyes. She didn’t even stir.
God, he’d missed her.
A visceral wave of relief flooded him. She was safe. She hadn’t been hurt while he was gone.
In his job—in his life, he suspected—he didn’t show emotions. Fear, vulnerability, grief, even hope… they all had to be locked away. He always had to be detached. A little removed. Unbiased. Unemotional. He couldn’t let himself get close to an animal that could easily die, and, even if it lived, would soon be gone. His heart could not be allowed to break every time he had a patient on his table, or he would break too.
But standing there, Ellie’s silky hair sliding through his fingers, he couldn’t deny the truth. He liked her. Far more than he should. He was afraid for her. He needed her. He wasnotdetached.
It was the exact opposite of the one moment he’d promised himself.
He couldn’t offer her anything at all. He didn’t know enough of who he was. He couldn’t remember most of his life, let alone share it with her. Soon, their time would be over. He couldn’t even promise that, when he left for the last time, he would get the chance to say goodbye.
If he was being rational, he would let her go now before he sank any deeper. He would slip away, back into the darkness or out into the storm, before she meant even more to him. Before he meant more to her, too. Because, however he might try to deny it, he knew their bond went both ways.
If he was sensible, he would wake her, tell her about the intruder, make sure she was safe, and then say goodbye.
But he couldn’t do it.
Her passion. Her bravery. Her curiosity and joy. He needed more of it.
And did it really have to end badly? Was it inevitable? Maybe there was a way to figure out why he was there. Maybe there was a way for him to stay for a few days or even weeks.
Ellie never gave up, even when she was afraid. Didn’t he owe her the same conviction?
