“Looking forward to it.”
He shook his head and went to the kitchen. I heard him moving around, the fridge door open and close, and the microwave beep.
By the time he came back with food—some kind of soup that smelled amazing—the medication was wearing off, and the pain was creeping back in. But I’d rather hurt than risk another slip like that.
Would rather suffer than watch understanding dawn in Étienne’s eyes when I inevitably said something I couldn’t take back.
We ate in relative silence. Or rather, Étienne ate and watched me stir soup around my bowl because my stomach was too knotted with anxiety to consume anything.
“You talked in your sleep,” he said suddenly.
My heart stopped. “What?”
“I could hear you from upstairs when I got home. You were saying something.” He paused. “Couldn’t make out what.”
The relief was so intense I felt dizzy. “Oh.”
“What were you dreaming about?”
“Don’t remember.”
Lie. I remembered fragments—vivid, intense flashes that I absolutely would not describe. Étienne’s hands on my skin. His mouth on mine. The weight of him, the warmth of him, the overwhelming relief of finally having what I’d wanted for so long.
I’d been talking in my sleep. Could have said anything. Could have said his name, could have revealed?—
“You okay?” Étienne asked. “You look pale.”
“Just tired.”
“You should go back to sleep.”
“I can’t sleep any more.”
I was lying. I was exhausted. But I couldn’t risk sleeping if it meant unconsciously revealing what I’d spent three years hiding.
The afternoon stretched on. Étienne tried to get me to watch TV, to play video games, to do anything that would distract me. But my mind was stuck in a loop of panic and paranoia.
What had I said? What had he heard? Was he suspicious now? Was he putting pieces together?
By evening, the pain had ramped up to the point where I couldn’t hide it anymore. Every shift, every breath, sent fire through my foot and up my leg.
“Take the prescription,” Étienne said.
“I’m fine.”
“Marco—”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re white-knuckling the blanket. You’re not fine.”
He was right. My hand clenched the fabric so tight my knuckles had gone white. But I couldn’t relax because relaxing meant acknowledging the pain, and acknowledging it meant giving in to medication that would make me dangerous to myself.
“Just—I’ll take them before bed.”
“It’s six thirty. You’re overdue.”
“Later.”
