When My Heart Joins the Thousand(72)

“I don’t know. Not exactly, I guess.”

I rub the cloth over his inner thighs. His muscles tense. “Maybe I’d better do that.”

He takes the cloth from me and quickly washes off the rest of himself. “Can you get me a clean set of clothes?” he asks.

I retrieve a fresh T-shirt and cotton drawstring pants from his bedroom. Still without looking directly at him, I help him get dressed. It’s easier than undressing him; I deliberately chose loose clothes that I could slide on without much difficulty.

“Okay, you can look now.”

I do. He’s flushed, breathing a little more rapidly than normal. My gaze strays to his groin, and sure enough, his pants are tented. “You have an erection,” I blurt out. He gulps, but this time, he doesn’t apologize. He just stares straight at me.

It doesn’t mean much, I tell myself. Males are hardwired to respond to certain stimuli. Even so, I can’t deny that it feels good to know that his body still wants me, at least.

I avert my eyes, suddenly self-conscious. “I didn’t look,” I tell him. “When I was washing you, I mean. I wanted to. But I didn’t.”

He lets out a tiny chuckle. “Well, I guess I can’t blame you for being tempted. I mean . . . all this.” He gestures down at his thin body, his legs, still bound up in wrappings and braces. He gives me a lopsided smile. It’s strained, and his face is pale and drawn, but it’s the first smile I’ve seen out of him in days.

My gaze lingers on his lips. I think about the night I spent in his bed, the warmth of those lips against mine. And for a moment, I want to.

Then his earlier words echo in my head: Leave me alone. A dull ache fills my chest. Why would Stanley want a kiss from the person who betrayed him?

“Is there anything else you need,” I ask. “I could get us some takeout.” I’d offer to cook him dinner, but putting bread in the toaster is about the closest I ever get to cooking.

He chews his lower lip. “Thanks, but I’m pretty tired. Can you help me into bed?”

I maneuver him into the chair and wheel him into the bedroom. Once he’s settled in bed with the covers pulled up to his chest and a glass of water on the nightstand, I start to walk out.

“Where are you going?” he calls.

“To the couch. That’s where I’ve been sleeping.” Using his bed would have felt presumptuous, even if he wasn’t there.

“Oh.” I have the sense he’s about to say something else—or maybe he expects me to say something. But what, I’m not sure. He looks away. “Good night, Alvie.”

“Good night.” I walk out, closing the door behind me. I lean against the wall.

The only reason I’m here now is because I have no other place to go, and because Stanley’s still too badly hurt to function on his own. I can’t let myself forget that. But I’m glad he let me wash him—that I was able to do something for him, that he trusted me at least that much. Even if he still refuses to let me see him naked.

He’s self-conscious about the scars; I know that’s part of it. But I can’t shake the feeling there’s something more.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


The next morning, I brew a pot of coffee and make some scrambled eggs with toast. Or at least, I try. I end up burning the first batch of eggs and have to start over. The second attempt is too runny, but it’s edible.

Stanley sits in his wheelchair, holding a cup of coffee, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a button-down white shirt. I helped him into his chair that morning, but he insisted on getting dressed by himself. It took him an hour. I have no idea how he managed it, with his limited mobility. But then, he’s had a lot of practice.

“What are you going to do about college,” I ask.

“I called the school. Sent them a note from my doctor. They’re going to email me the assignments I missed.” He picks a bit of shell from his eggs. “I should be able to attend classes again, starting today. If you can drive me.”

I nod and pour myself some more coffee. “When.”

“Two thirty. I just have one programming class this afternoon.”

I wonder, not for the first time, how he affords college on top of everything else. I know he gets some money from his father, but is it enough? Even if his house is paid off—and I’m not sure it is—there’s still the electricity, the water bill, the gas, the property taxes . . . not to mention the hospital bills. Maybe his mother had a life insurance policy. Regardless, he probably doesn’t have a lot of spare cash.

“If I’m going to be living in your house for the foreseeable future,” I say through a mouthful of toast, “I should help with the bills.”

“You don’t have to do that, Alvie.”

“Yes, I do. I’ll get another job soon. Anyway, I don’t do well with idleness.” Already, I miss the animals. And while Stanley will still require some care for a while, he probably doesn’t want me hovering around him twenty-four hours a day.

“Well, if that’s what you want. . . . Any particular place in mind?”

“Anyplace that will have me. I’ve been sending in applications. It’s just . . .” I poke at the blobby, whitish-yellow eggs with my fork. “I have difficulty with some of the questions.”