Page 104 of Paper Roses

And I should. Yes, I’ve nursed him to the very best of my ability. I’ve moved heaven and earth to get anything he wanted. Not that it’s been onerous, as he’s the least demanding man I’ve ever met. Nevertheless, I’ve driven him to hospital appointments, cooked for him, helped him shower, and read to him when his head hurt. Yet, it’s all been at a distance, and he knows it.

He tried to cheer me up when we’d first come home, making conversation and light jokes and cuddling up to me at night. But it didn’t work, and now he’s withdrawn to a careful and watchful neutrality.

It’s just as well. Nothing he does can break the wall I painstakingly bricked up in that hospital room waiting for him to wake up.

I shudder at the memory—the blind panic oozing dark and sticky from my pores as I watched his thin face turn the colour of milk, the cuts and bruises obscenely dark on his skin.

“Jed, are you okay?”

I flinch. “Sorry, just thinking of work,” I say vaguely.

Joe frowns, his eyes pools of concern. “Maybe you should go home,” he says gently. “You’re not doing any good here.”

I lick my lips. “Maybe.” I look at him and say, “It’s six months today.”

“Pardon?”

I tap the desk distractedly. “They sign the house over to Artie today.”

“Oh?” He’s obviously trying to work out what the fuck I’m talking about and settles for a nod and a cheerful, “Well, that’s good news. You should buy a bottle of champagne and go home and celebrate.”

The operative word is “home,” but I wave him off with vague promises of leaving soon. The door shuts behind him, and I return to my thoughts.

I can’t do this.

The thought has been hovering in the back of my mind constantly, beating panicked wings. I shudder and raise my fingers to my temples, trying to push the image away. It’s always in my dreams—that moment when the bike had hit him, and he’d sailed into the air. I’d screamed, although the scene seemed to happen in slow motion and utter silence. But when he hit his head, the thud was deafening.

It seemed to take ages to reach him, and then I’d scrabbled for his pulse, thinking over and over again,Please not him. Not again.

I lost my dad too young, but I’d had my job as my mum and brother’s protector to get me through. The memories of him were gentle and not razor-edged.

Then Mick. His death had almost killed me, but I’d finally managed to pull myself out of the emotional grave I’d put myself in and go on living.

But I don’t think I can do that with Artie. I don’t think I have the strength anymore to lose another person.

Maybe I’m bad luck. This is another thought that’s been on repeat. It starts up at night when I lie sleepless next to Artie, counting his breaths and the hours of the night.

“Stop it,” I say out loud and take in a deep breath.

I have to get over this. It couldn’t have come at a worse time. My limited time with Artie is like a ticking clock in my head. He’ll go back to being Artie, my assistant, and I’ll have to watch him fall in love with someone in the future. It all makes me want to scream and beat my chest.

Do I want to push him away? Do I want to see him with another man?

No, is my instant answer. I want more of what we’ve had these few months—the laughter, the closeness, the midnight conversations wrapped up in our sheets with his scent in my head.

I want him. I take a steadying breath. But I can’t have anything more. That hospital vigil was proof that I mentally and physically cannot do more. Is that enough for him?

I groan. My thoughts are an endlessly spinning merry-go-round, and I stand up and gather my stuff listlessly. It’s time to go home.

I need to be better for him than some distant stranger. Maybe it will all make sense if I talk to him.

artie

The wind is howling around the house tonight, rattling the windows and making the fire gutter in the hearth. Del Amitri’s “Kiss This Thing Goodbye” plays on the stereo while I’m curled up on the sofa under a soft throw. I’d found the album in Jed’s huge collection of vinyl earlier. It had been difficult to put on the turntable, fumbling with one working hand, and I’d been a little nervous using the deck because it was obscenely expensive. But I don’t think I did any damage.

I watch the embers spark in the fire while clutching the letters that came today.

It’s late. I drew the curtains against the autumn dark a while ago, and there’s still no sign of Jed. It’s been this way for the last couple of weeks, and my sigh is loud in the still room.

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