Placing a supportive hand against Paul’s back, Alex feigned calmness. “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of it.” To the nurse he said, “I’m Alex Martin, Alfred Anderson’s nephew. May I have the papers, please?”
She handed him a clipboard full of forms, pointedly ignoring Paul, and Alex leaned against the counter, scribbling the necessary information. Paul stood a few feet away, forlornly staring toward where the gurney had disappeared.
The doors opened and an orderly stepped out, eyes sweeping the waiting room and alighting on Alex. “Mr. Martin? I was told to come and get you.”
“I have to finish up here,” Alex replied, pointing to Paul with his pen. “Would you mind taking him back?” His raised eyebrow dared the orderly to even mention the word “family.”
“Certainly,” the young man replied without hesitation, turning to the quietly sniffling Paul. “If you’ll come with me?”
“Alex?” Those soulful brown eyes appeared so lost, and the last brick in the wall around Alex’s heart crumbled and fell. He’d have gladly given all his worldly possessions never to see such misery there again.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, fighting the urge to offer comfort while trying not let the sinking feeling in his gut show on his face. “You go on and I’ll be there in a minute.”
Rushing through the papers, he handed them over to the nurse. The orderly reappeared at his side. “If you could come with me, sir.” No further words were necessary; Alex read the message loud and clear on the man’s face. Alfred was dead.
The orderly pushed the button to activate the doors and they whooshed open. Alex found Paul slumped in a chair, face soaked with tears. A nurse stooped beside him, attempting to offer comfort. Alex dropped into a chair on Paul’s other side, pulling him into a hug.
Paul buried his face in Alex’s neck, sobbing. “Shh,” Alex crooned. “It’s okay, they’re together now. They’re happy.”
“I don’t want him to go!” Paul cried. “First Uncle Byron and now Alfred! What will I do without them? I don’t want to be alone!”
“You aren’t alone, you’ve got me.” Though he said the words as comfort, he meant them with every ounce of his being. He loved Alfred, too, and would dearly miss his uncle. Right now, instead of sorrow, he chose to focus on the joy of having had such a wonderful person in his life, treasuring the time they’d spent together. The more he’d learned of his uncle, the more he understood that, as much as Alfred loved the living, his heart remained with Byron, and every day he awoke alone had been sheer agony.
Suddenly, it hit home for Alex that he was alone now, too, and though Paul might need him, he needed Paul more.
18
“WHERE’REyou takin’ me?” Paul slurred as Alex navigated him toward the staircase, carefully helping him up each step.
“We both need some sleep.”
Having taken a doctor-prescribed sedative, a drug-induced fog clouded Paul’s mind. He waved a sluggish hand toward the hall. “My room’s down there,” he stated, somewhat mystified that Alex didn’t take him there.
“You don’t want to be alone, remember? Besides, I think it’s better if we avoid the east wing right now, don’t you?”
“You’re right.” Paul nodded overenthusiastically, eyebrows furrowing when he tried to remember something important. Oh yeah. Books. “The bookcase! Someone gotta pick up books!”
Without his glasses, Paul glimpsed Alex through bleary eyes. Alex cocked a brow, and, being too tired to explain, Paul shook his head, mumbling, “Never mind,” and he allowed Alex to lead him up the stairs and into the blue room.
Not much help in his befuddled state, Paul didn’t fight when Alex pushed him back onto the bed and stripped him down to his boxers. Was Alex finally going to take what he’d been offered?
As if reading his mind, Alex said, “You’re upset, you’re exhausted, and you’re drugged to the gills. I’m putting you to bed—alone—to sleep it off while I go make some phone calls.”
Bolting upright, an ill-advised move that caused the room to spin, Paul pleaded, “No, don’t leave me!”
A firm hand on his chest stopped him from scrambling off the bed. Peeling back the covers and tucking Paul beneath, Alex pulled them up to his chin. “Shh…. You get some sleep. I can make my calls from here if it doesn’t keep you awake. Good night, Paul.” Alex bestowed a chaste kiss on his forehead. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Don’t wanna talk,” Paul whined sleepily, “wanna hold you.” Wait a minute! Had he said that out loud? A dopey smile crept over his face. Yes, he had. “In sedatio veritas…,” he mumbled absentmindedly to himself.
“Yes, under sedation the truth comes out,” Alex replied. Before Paul could respond, he fell asleep.
Several times during the night, Paul swam to the surface of consciousness only to plunge back down into the welcoming embrace of oblivion. Once or twice he swore he heard softly spoken words, blaming the phantom conversation on the drugs when his sedated mind fabricated his beloved uncle’s voice.
The night grew quiet and he woke surrounded by warmth. After a moment he registered Alex spooning against his back, one muscular arm thrown around his waist. Even in the early days with Jordan, he’d never felt so safe and secure. Snuggling into the reassuring embrace, he quickly fell back to sleep to the comforting sound of deep, even breathing.
OVERa breakfast that turned to sand in his mouth, Paul listened carefully to Alex, who’d apparently been very busy the previous night.
“I know you may not want to talk about this, but we need to. Alfred made his own funeral arrangements. He’s to be buried next to Byron in a simple graveside service with only family and close friends present.”
