“Why not?”
“Because you would have told me not to.”
He’s right. I would have said don’t come, I’m fine, handle your life. All the things I’ve been saying through shorter texts and careful distance, convincing myself I was protecting him when I was really protecting myself.
“Yeah,” I say. “I probably would have.”
“And I would’ve come anyway. I saved us both the argument.”
“Come around here,” I say, tugging him closer. “Let me see you.”
He lets go of my hand. My balance shifts slightly, my hand dropping to the armrest to steady myself. He walks around the side of my chair and I can’t stop staring at him.
He’s wearing his eyeliner again. The dark lines make his eyes look sharper than I’ve seen them. Except they’re not the color I thought they were. Out here, in the sunlight, his eyes are green. Blue at the edges fading to green at the center with flecks of gold near the pupil. I’ve been wrong about the color of his eyes for the entire time I’ve known him because I’ve only seen him inside rooms that lie about color.
He’s wearing a fitted white T-shirt and slim jeans. His nails are freshly painted, dark navy. He’s tan and restored, the dark circles lighter, the bruise gone, his face filled back in.
He squats in front of my chair. His face level with mine. The sun is behind me and falling on him and I’m looking at Benji at eye level in sunlight for the first time.
“Your eyes,” I say. “They’re green.”
He smiles and blinks at me. “They’ve always been green, Mickey.”
“No, they were gray in the hospital. Blue-gray. I thought they were blue-gray.”
“That’s the awful fluorescent lighting. It kills the green.”
“The green is alive now,” I say.
“You look good.” He seems almost shy. “You look really good, Mickey.” His eyes travel from my shoulders to my biceps to my forearms. “You’ve been working out. I can tell.”
“Yeah, I have. Wheelchair push-ups. Transfers. Core work. Jason’s trying to turn me into the upper half of a linebacker.”
“It’s working.”
His eyes come back to mine. The green-gold of them gazes at me.
I don’t look away from him. Not anymore.
“I missed you, Benji.”
The words come out before I can stop them. I’ve been building distance, making the texts shorter, convincing myself that cutting him off slowly would hurt less when he eventually left for good. But he didn’t leave and now he’s squatting in front of my wheelchair.
His eyes go bright and wet, his mouth trembling for half a second before he catches it.
“I missed you too,” he says. “Damn it, Mickey. I missed trying to make sure you were eating and putting cream on yourbody. I’m not the best caregiver in the world, but I miss trying to take care of you. I miss the hours of talking to you on the phone and texting you twenty times a day about everything.”
He’s rambling. I’m watching his mouth move and I want to kiss him. I want to lean forward and put my mouth on his. But I can’t. I haven’t kissed anyone in months, and the last time it meant nothing.
I reach for his hand instead. I take his smaller hand and hold it between both of mine. His fingers are warm. He glances down at our hands and his breath catches.
“Do you want to go inside?” I ask.
“No, you’ve been stuck inside for too long,” he says. “Let’s stay out here in the fresh air and sun. I like the color it’s bringing back to your face.”
He sinks down on the concrete beside my chair, cross-legged, his shoulder leaning against the wheel, his face tilted up toward me. Benji has always been the standing one. Now he’s on the ground, leaning against my chair like it’s where he belongs. We stay outside. The shadows get longer. Neither of us lets go.
“How did the wedding turn out?” I ask.
