Page 111 of Leah

And who wouldn’t be?

He was in bed most of the day, sleeping. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was withdrawn, sitting on the luxurious couch or at the table while food came on steaming trays, looking artsy as fuck.

He didn’t eat.

He barely spoke.

The majority of the time he wouldn’t acknowledge me.

With the cast on his arm being such an annoying hindrance, I’d offered to help change him, but he’d managed on his own. I gave him his pain medication, but even that was hard to dobecause he refused them half the time, like he was determined to feel the pain.

I sat beside him, trying my hardest not to stare too intently at him, or to talk. I recognized that in these moments it was important to let the silence make all the noise.

He didn’t accept visitors.

Not even Rome was allowed in.

Carter was putting up a wall, and the only being allowed on this side of it was me.

“I ordered the chicken and rice plate,” I quietly said as we sat down at the table next to the giant window overlooking the city. The sky was clear, the sun was out, but inside this hotel room, there was a pressure in the air, kind of like what you feel before a storm.

I was sitting across from him, and the glass table was small enough that I could reach over and touch him.

I didn’t.

I briefly glimpsed the bruising around his face from the crash. It was fading slowly, but it was still dark against his pale skin. He needed the sun badly. His face was unkempt, the light-coloured stubble growing into an uneven beard. There was more bruising along the side of his body, but I hadn’t seen much except for when he changed his shirt at the hospital. When I’d asked about it, he’d simply told me he was fine, but…

I was sure he wasn’t being totally honest with me.

He kicked around the rice with his fork, saying nothing. I tried to eat, but I felt on edge. I didn’t know how to diffuse the tension between us—because it was there, too, among other things.

I set my fork down, and reached for the pitcher, pouring us each a glass of water. “Even the water looks posh,” I remarked lightly, trying to smile. “I wonder if they found it in the Garden of Eden.”

He glanced at me, those blue eyes empty looking. His lips flinched up in a soft way, a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. I settled the pitcher down and resumed eating, glimpsing at him randomly, watching as he stared down at his plate and then at me. We made eye contact a few times, and I felt that smile tug on my lips, but it was as empty as his was.

Carter seemed broken.

The plane crash had fractured him, and I was so scared all of a sudden that he might push me away again. That me might retreat into a corner of his being to protect himself from tragedy.

While we’d made those promises on that hospital bed, I recognized that it could have been spoken from a desperate, impulsive place in him. That he wanted to cling onto the familiarity of me in the wake of such tragedy, and that maybe, once the cobwebs were cleared, he might not have meant any of it.

Was that my inner fear talking?

Perhaps.

Truth was, I was more vulnerable than ever.

I let out a long breath, clasping my hands together now. I looked out the window, at the sky and cement jungle, awed that life had pulled me here, to this place, with him, and we were these two souls trying to find each other all over again.

“Who gets to decide who lives and who dies?”

His soft words pulled me out of my thoughts, directing my startled gaze back to him. His words hung heavy in the air as I pondered them, deciding what to say. Nothing eloquent came to mind. I didn’t have the right words—I just…feltfor this man, and right now, I was hurting for him.

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly, body still as I regarded him. “But you lived, Carter.”

He blinked slowly, peering down at his full plate with a faraway look. “What have I done with my life, Leah?”

“You’re an artist.”

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