Page 46 of Forget Me Knot

His deep, gritty voice sends shivers down my arms, but I can’t help but hope I haven’t made a huge blunder in taking Owen’s advice. He does not look pleased to see me. Before doubt sets in, I step forward and hold out my hand for his.

“Let me take care of you, Jack?”

He wordlessly steps aside, opening the door with a shaky hand, and allows me to pass by. He’s resigned as he slowly pads behind me into the darkened living space. But as I reach for the light switch, Jack’s calloused hand grasps mine, sending a zip of electricity between us.

“Please don’t,” he says, voice scratchy with disuse. “I’m… The lights—”

“Oh, yeah. Light sensitivity, right?”

“Right,” he sighs again, and hearing that exhaustion in his voice tugs at my heart.

Keeping a tight hold of his hand, I find the kitchen counter in the dark and set down the small bag of supplies I brought then lead him towards where I assume his bedroom is.

“Let’s get you back to bed, Jack.”

He follows silently, and I’m not sure why the intimacy of truly holding Jack’s hand for the first time or entering his most personal space doesn’t feel more strange.

When I reach the only bedroom, a soft light emits from an alarm clock, casting the room in a green glow. One of the articles I read about TBIs mentioned green light therapy to decrease migraine intensity which makes me wonder if Jack’s color choice is coincidence or intentional.

Directing him back to the rumpled bed in the center of the room, I’m hit with the scent of body wash and something floral, but masculine. It’s uniquely Jack which, wonder of wonders, brings an unexpected smile to my face.

“Cat,” he whispers, and Chipper obediently jumps on the bed, waiting until Jack’s somewhat settled before curling into his side.

I pull the fluffy down comforter up over his body and then find the heating pad exactly where Owen told me I would. Plugging it in and laying it over Jack’s still form, I lean closer and hear his low groan.

“Too much? You need the heat, right?”

“It’s good,” he answers.

Owen warned that Jack wouldn’t be chatty, and I might have to do some digging to figure out what exactly he’d need at different points over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. But he did provide me with a guideline of what to expect, what meds he’d need, the dos and don’ts of intense migraines such as these, and a list of his doctors’ phone numbers.

“Need cold, too?” I ask hesitantly, noticing the way he flinches each time my voice breaks the silence.

He shakes his head slowly and holds out his hand, brushing it against mine. “Water? Stay.”

Tears mist my eyes. This is theuglyand thebeautifulEmory is so afraid of, but I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Holding the straw to his mouth, I say, “I’m not going anywhere, Jack.”

And I don’t.

“How do you always know?” Jack asks quietly after his meds seem to be kicking in and I’ve sat quietly at his bedside for hours. The first few here were rough, with him intermittently falling into deep, but what seemed like pain-filled sleep then waking up in bursts of energy to throw up in the trash can kept tuckedunder the bed. He’s since gone to the restroom a few times, brushed his teeth, and stayed hydrated, as far as I can tell.

“Owen told me—”

“No. I know why you’re here. My brother is a meddler,” he mumbles. “How do you always know… when it’s me?”

“Do you mind that I’m here?”

He reaches out and pulls my hand into his, where Chipper paws playfully at us both, growing bored with our inactivity. “No, Polly. I’m… I’m embarrassed. I don’t want you to see me this way, but… I’m glad… you’re here.” This is the most he’s spoken in hours, and it’s clearly hard for him to form complete thoughts. Or at least to verbalize them.

I let my thumb stroke his. “I’m glad too.”

“So?” He’s waiting for an answer, but after our talk last week, I’m nervous to answer honestly. I’m anxious about this thing between us that feels new and shaky, but that we’ve finally labeled assomething.

“I know you, Jack. There’s something about your eyes. The way you move and speak and… look at me. I know when you’re Jack and when you're Jackson.”

He looks momentarily disappointed until I add, “But it isn’t ever a you or him thing for me. It's you and me. Always just—”

“Jack?” he asks, hopefully, but I finish as honestly as I can.

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