Page 65 of The Photograph

He gestures at my phone. “What did Alex say, anyway?”

“He’s on his way,” I say.

Steve nods, sinking into the chair and taking hold of my hand. “God, I’m glad you’re all right, Dessy, I was shitting myself for a bit. They put you on a drip in that ambulance and you looked fucking rough.” He closes his eyes and squeezes my fingers. “Not a huge fan of needles,” he says.

I must have drifted off, because I wake up some unknown amount of time later to find Alex standing at the foot of the bed. His eyes are fixed on the covers like something is wrong with my legs, and I peer down, blinking sleepily at my hand resting in Steve’s. Steve is in the chair close to my bed and his eyes are shut, but then he stirs, blearily casting around, and his fingers slip out of mine as he looks up at Alex.

“Des,” Alex says.

His face is all odd. Red eyes, blotchy skin, dark eyebrows a hard slash across his forehead. His hair is flattened against his head and dampened down like someone stuck a wet brush through it.

“Alex.” My smile wobbles, but his face relaxes, mouth transforming from a thin line to something more normal.

Steve sits forward and rubs his hands over his face. “Jesus, I must have fallen asleep.” He holds out a hand to Alex. “Steve,” he says.

“Good to meet you, Steve.” Alex nods, leaning over to take Steve’s outstretched hand, but his voice is pinched, hesitancy in every word.

“I’m an old friend of Des’s. Been taking care of him.” He studies me. “I’m going to go now, sugar—I gotta get myself sorted for work. Try and ease myself into some sort of shape for Monday. Man, I need some sleep.”

Reaching out, I snag and squeeze his hand. “Thanks. Waking up with someone here … I really appreciate it.” I swallow, throat thick and tight.

He chuckles and leans in, kissing me on the lips, squeezing my fingers, and pressing our joined hands into my chest.

“Love you, Dessy,” he says, before turning to Alex, shaking his head. “Take care of him,” he adds. “God knows somebody needs to keep an eye on him.” And he picks up his jacket and bumps into the wall on his way out.

The strange expression has returned to Alex’s face.

“What?”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s an old friend. Sometime hookup of George’s. Steve is how I met George, actually.”

“Have you slept with him?”

I screw my face up at him.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He blows out a breath and stares at the drip hooked up to my arm then paces over to the window, staring out into the darkness. A deep scowl is reflected in the glass. Putting my head back against the pillow, I close my eyes. I’m too ill for a fight.

“What happened?” he says, voice suddenly much closer, and when I open my eyes he’s sitting in the chair that Steve vacated.

I give him a brief rundown of the night before. When I tell him about stripping off, he murmurs, “That sounds like you,” and I catch a glimpse of a smile, but the frown reappears when I talk about putting my hands down some guy’s pants.

And then I reach the part where I’m sharing the bed with George, and of course I’m going to tell him this. But my stomach sinks as his face gets more and more expressionless, then morphs into concern when I tell him about having what amounts to a seizure and the ambulance.

“Has something like this ever happened to you before?”

I shake my head. “The doctor said there are some drugs ‘doing the rounds’ where they’ve seen something similar. But they really can’t tell.”

He nods, staring down at his hands. Then stands up again and paces around the end of my bed.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He bites his lip. “It’s okay. I just don’t know if I can … I’m not built for casual, Des.”

“No one’s asking you to do casual.”

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