When My Heart Joins the Thousand(42)

I sit motionless, arms crossed over my chest, knees locked together. Looking back, it seems so obvious—his cane, his eyes, the way he talked about breaking bones as if it was more or less routine. How did I not see? Did I not want to?

“My parents were always fighting,” he says. “Mostly about money, because there was never enough. It all went toward my medical bills. I was in the hospital so often, I got to know all the doctors and nurses by name. They liked me, because I smiled for them, and when they asked me how I was, I always said I was fine. I told them how lucky I felt to have so many people taking such good care of me. They all thought I was this brave little soldier. But it wasn’t like that. I mean, they were the ones cutting me open and filling me with pins and pushing the button that gave me my pain meds. I needed them to like me. It wasn’t bravery, it was survival.”

My hand drifts toward one braid and starts tugging.

“I was thinking about that last night,” he continues. “And I remembered that thing you said. About rabbit moms, how they reabsorb the baby if there’s something wrong with it.”

I draw in my breath sharply.

“It’s like you said. Love doesn’t pay the bills.”

No, no, no. I want to jump back in space-time and erase those words. “I wasn’t talking about you,” I whisper.

“I know. But this is going to be my life, Alvie. More breaking bones and more trips to the hospital and being stuck in a sling or on crutches for months on end and needing help with everything. And maybe someday I will go deaf, or end up in a wheelchair, or both. Am I supposed to pretend like that doesn’t matter? Like it’s not a big deal? How can I ask anyone—” His voice cracks.

I clutch my arm, fingers pressing into my own flesh with bruising force. “I’m broken, too.”

“No, you’re not. You should have seen yourself.” He smiles, his expression tight with pain. “You don’t need some white knight rushing in to save you. And even if you did, I can’t—” His voice splinters again. “I’m just a useless—”

I kiss him. I don’t even think about it; my body moves on its own.

I come in too fast. Our teeth knock together, and he gasps against my mouth. I pull back a little, then come in again, gentler, softer. His lips are warm, slightly rough and chapped against mine. I can’t tell if I’m doing this right. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

I pull back, and he looks up at me, eyes wide and dazed. “Why did you—?”

“Because I wanted to.”

He blinks a few times. His expression has gone blank, as if a tiny nuclear bomb has gone off in his cortex, obliterating his thoughts.

“You are someone who should exist, Stanley. I shouldn’t have said those things at Buster’s. I wasn’t thinking. I was upset because—” The words stop as if they’ve hit a wall in my throat. Somehow, this is very hard to admit. “—because I didn’t like seeing you with her.”

“I. Wait. Who?”

My face burns. “That girl. Dorothy.”

His jaw drops. “That’s what was bothering you?”

I want to crawl under the bed and hide.

“Alvie . . . I told you, Dorothy and I just sit next to each other in class. We’re not even friends.”

“She likes you,” I mutter.

“She likes to mother me. Girls tend to treat me that way, because I’m the quiet, nerdy guy with the cane. I’ve never been on their radar, not like that. That’s why I was so surprised when you asked me to . . .” A light flush rises into his cheeks. “You know.”

Of course—Stanley doesn’t see himself as attractive. He wouldn’t realize that woman was flirting with him if she flipped her skirt up and presented her rump like a bonobo in heat.

“Alvie. Look at me.”

I force myself to meet his gaze.

“I don’t want her. I want—I would like to be with—you.”

My insides are a confused muddle. If I were a better person, I would push Stanley right into Dorothy’s arms, because she can give him so many things that I can’t. But I can’t deny the stab of fierce animal joy I feel at those words. I want you.

He reaches up, cupping the back of my neck, and leans up, toward me.

The kiss is slower this time. Softer. He tastes faintly of cherries; he must have eaten some Jell-O in the hospital.

Before now, I never understood the appeal of this. I always thought it would be disgusting, sharing saliva with another person, but somehow it’s not. Maybe because it’s Stanley.

I pull back and lick my lips. “It’s very wet,” I say. “Kissing.”

“That’s kind of the idea.” His eyes search my face. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Keep going.”

His lips move against mine. His eyes open a crack, and he peeks out at me through his eyelashes. “Close your eyes,” he whispers.

I do, and I see immediately why. It’s more intense without the distraction of sight. The room suddenly feels a lot warmer; I’m dizzy, off-balance. Everything about this is dangerous. I am walking a tightrope over a bottomless abyss, and one wrong step will drag us both down into oblivion. But I don’t want to stop. I can’t.

When I finally pull back, he breathes a small, shivery sigh. His eyes slowly open, soft and unfocused.