Page 41 of Lighting the Lamp
“You’re trembling.” My voice cracks with panic. “This isn’t normal. We need to go to the ER?—”
“No.” His answer is fast, desperate. “I just… I need to rest. I just want to be here. With you, but I don’t want to make a big deal out of it.”
I stare at him, disbelief crashing into me like a wave. “This isn’t making a big deal?”
“I didn’t want to bother you,” he says, quieter now, like it hurts to admit. “You’ve got your internship, exams, driving Aunt Peggy to her million and one appointments. I didn’t want to be another problem to solve.”
I freeze in place; the words hit in places I didn’t even know were raw.
“You didn’t call me or tell me you were in pain,” I say slowly, each word tasting more bitter than the last. “You just showed up at my door, looking like you got hit by a truck, and your first thought was how not to inconvenience me?”
“I didn’t know what else to do.” His voice is so quiet it’s barely audible.
“Talk to me,” I snap, the anger sharp and sudden, covering the ache underneath. “Let me show up for you, Beau. You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t handle.”
“I thought I was protecting you.” His eyes lift, wet and full of something I can’t name.
“No.” My voice breaks, choking on the word. “You were protecting yourself from being seen as weak. There is nothingweak about being vulnerable. That’s not protecting anyone; it’s hiding.”
His eyes shine wet in the low light, and tears slip down his cheek and disappear into the dark fabric of his hoodie. “I’m not trying to hide away from you or anyone, but everyone else is going through so much. I just want to be there for them. To be the strong one to help them weather the storm, but sometimes…”
“You want someone to do that for you.” I slide my hand into his, pressing it to my chest so he can feel how fast my heart is racing. For him, always for him.
“You do that for me, Lisey.” His voice breaks, tears spilling silently down his cheeks like he’s too used to suffering in silence to make a sound. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But every time you try to do everything alone, you’re hurting me all over again.”
I reach for him, sliding my hand over his, feeling the tremor there, the heat of him. “You don’t have to. Not with me.”
He says nothing, but he threads his fingers through mine and squeezes, like I’m the last solid thing in a world that keeps knocking him down. I grip his hand tightly in mine because I don’t care how heavy things get. I will help him carry the load, even if it breaks me.
The memory hits me like a slap. I can still feel the sweat on his skin, the way his fingers shook when he finally let go. I begged him not to shut me out again and carry his pain like some kind of penance he has to suffer in silence. And yet here we are. Same man, same pride, and the same goddamn walls between us I’ve been trying to tear down for years.
Only now, we’re older. We’ve survived and shared too much with each other over the years. And I’m not that girl on the living room floor anymore, desperate for him to let me in. Now, I’m pissed.
Hot, indignant anger floods my chest, shoving aside the embarrassment and ache from earlier. He doesn’t get to make me feel like a villain in my life. He doesn’t get to weaponize his pain and throw it at me like I asked for it. No, he’s an adult. A brilliant, infuriating, emotionally constipated adult. If he wants to pick a fight with me in the middle of a crowded hallway, then he’d better be ready to finish it because I’m not letting him have the last word.
My boots echo against the concrete as I storm through the parking lot toward my car, every step like a war drum. I know exactly where he’s gone. Exactly what stupid, lonely corner of his condo he’s sulking in. God so fucking help him if he doesn’t open the door because I’ve got something to say, and I’m not walking away until I’ve said all of it.
Chapter Fifteen
Beau
Ibarely make it inside before my condo door shuts behind me. The second it clicks, my legs buckle. I hit the floor hard—knees first, then hands—palms skidding across the cold tile like I’m sliding into hell.
Pain detonates through me. My spine seizes. My right hip lights up with a white-hot spike of pain that shoots straight up my back, locking every muscle in place. Pain that steals your breath and swallows it whole. The walls tilt violently left, then right. My body jerks, useless and twitching, as I collapse onto my side, chest heaving but never catching air.
The monitor strapped to my chest digs into me as I hit the floor, its adhesive edges tugging with every shallow breath, a cold reminder recording every second of this breakdown. I try to shift, to knock it loose, but I can’t. Even fidgeting is pure agony.
I try to breathe through it, but the air is thick and unyielding, like I’m inhaling cement. My vision narrows until all I can see are the fractured edges of the kitchen lights, bending like a funhouse mirror. Sweat pools against the tile beneath me, my shirt clinging to my skin like shrink-wrap. The patch burns against my chest, and I claw at the fabric over it, desperate to cover, to hide, to make it disappear. I can’t move. Every twitch isagony. It feels like someone took a baseball bat to every joint and left the pieces floating inside me. I squeeze my eyes shut, nails digging into the tile.
“Come on,” I rasp. “Come on, just—fuck—get it together.” But the words come out shredded and useless.
A choked sound escapes me like an animal dying slowly. Bile burns its way up my throat as I press my forehead to the blessedly cold floor, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t ground me. It only reminds me of how low I’ve sunk. Curled up in my kitchen, choking on pain and panic and all the things I’ll never say out loud.
Move. You just have to move.
I manage to brace my elbows against the tile and try to breathe through it, but I can’t. I don’t even know if I can crawl. Every twitch of my limbs sends another burst of agony ricocheting through my body like broken glass in a blender. My body’s shutting down, piece by piece. I’m trapped inside it, a passenger with no brakes. The monitor digs into my sternum as if reminding me it’s cataloging every second of my failure.
