Page 87 of What You Wish For

“Poor Duncan,” Helen said. “Can’t escape it. He’s a nurturer.”

I considered that for a second. “I really miss the guy he used to be,” I said.

“Oh, God, so do I,” Helen said. “And you know what? I think he does, too.”

When it was time, I brought Duncan a mug of soup and a heavy-duty painkiller.

He was all wrapped up in his blankets, shirt still off, curled up on his side.

“Hey,” I said, gently, touching him on the shoulder. “Time to drink some soup and take your medicine.”

He sat up, slowly. I tried to hand him the mug, but instead he shuffled off to pee, and then spent some time brushing his teeth. The door wasn’t entirely closed. Through the crack, I could see his elbow moving.

“Why do you have a whole windowsill of dead succulents?” I asked.

I saw him lean down and spit. “They’re not dead. Yet. Not quite.”

“I mean, how do you kill a succulent? All you have to do is justnot water them.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy.”

“Not for me,” Duncan said, leaning his head back to gargle.

“Here’s my advice,” I said. “Every time you feel the urge to water them… don’t water them.”

He spat in the sink, rinsed his mouth, washed his face, and shuffledback into the room. He was shirtless still, and the sight of him as he perched on the bed’s edge, lit from the side by the light in the hall, was so dissonant: his shoulders and arms just covered in muscles, and his side covered in scars. A picture of health—and destruction.

“Thank you for being here,” he said.

I handed him the mug of soup. “Drink as much of this as you can.”

Duncan took it. Then he said, “My sister keeps sending me the succulents. I know I shouldn’t water them. But I keep doing it anyway.”

“Watering them to death.”

“Pretty much.”

“What if you moved them to another part of the house?”

He took a swig of soup. “Tried it. Didn’t work.”

“Maybe you should get some different plants. Ones that like to be watered.”

“Too late.”

He gulped the rest of the soup down, and then I handed him his pain pill. He knocked that back with the last sip.

Then I helped him get under the covers, and I tucked him in like he was a little kid.

He patted the bed next to him, and said, “Sit for a second.”

He’d be conked out again soon. “Just for a second,” I said, sitting to face him.

He held my gaze for a second. Then he said, “I hate nighttime now. I can never sleep anymore. Every tiny noise makes me jump.”

I leaned over to get his phone off the bedside table. I thought he’d closed his eyes again, but when I looked up, he was watching me.

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