Page 50 of Lips of an Angel

When we’d pulled up in front of the building, there’d been a distinct lack of evidence. I don’t know what I expected, but certainly there should besomethingleft over from the divine intervention that saved my life. But there wasn’t so much as a skid mark on the road from the sudden stop of tires. According to Eli, the truck swerved at the last second and missed me—and, miraculously, all the other cars—completely.

Seeing as how I wasn’t going to get my way, I slowly stripped. I expected to feel pain in my shoulder and bicep when I removed my shirt, but nothing happened. No tenderness, no soreness. The same could be said for my ankle when I stood and tentatively put pressure on it. It took my full weight without issue as I took off my jeans.

When I stepped into the shower, my mind quieted. The hot water rinsed away the disinfectant from the hospital and the triggering memories that went along with it. I didn’t show that vulnerable side of me often, but it was hard not to at times. Especially when I felt as splayed open as I did now. I washed myself twice. As soapy suds trickled down my body on the second rinse, my fingers feathered over my ribcage, dancing over the memory of long-ago injuries that had healed over. I stepped out of the shower and wiped my face, thumbing over the small scar hidden in my hairline.

Angel must’ve been listening for the water to turn off because he stepped into the room as soon as I wrapped a towel around my waist. “You okay?”

I nodded, brushing my wet hair away from my face. Angel didn’t leave the room. Instead, he scanned my body as if there were cuts or scrapes he hadn’t healed yet.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked.

“Is it too early for tequila?”

Angel rolled his eyes, but I caught the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I was thinking coffee.”

“Irish coffee?” I pressed.

He chuckled, and the sound spread warmth through my chest. I could practically hear him scolding me, but it was worth it.

“I’d love some,” I said.

The sun started to peek through the windows as I pulled on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I found Angel in the kitchen, but instead of turning this into a “kitchen floor” conversation, he gestured toward the couch. I wasn’t sure whether I was moving on autopilot or if I was simply too exhausted to argue, but I fell into the cushions. Fatigue seemed to hit me out of nowhere and I rested my head on the back of the couch, eyes slipping shut until the cushions dipped next to me, Angel taking his seat. The click as he set two mugs on the table was loud in the quiet apartment.

Angel tapped me on my shoulder to get my attention before pressing my mug into my palm. The heat seeped through the ceramic, melting into my skin and relaxing my nerves. His hand remained in place, blanketing mine.

“So, you with wings… not a dream?”

Angel grimaced—and shook his head.

I outlined the all-seeing eye on the back of his hand with my finger. “These actually move?”

He sighed, settling deeper into the couch and crossing his legs underneath him. “I’m not sure where to start.”

Angel had always been a man of few words, but since relying on sign to communicate, those words diminished further. Even talking with his hands was taxing on Angel’s anxiety, so to take the pressure off of him, I prepared to carry the conversation—as much as I could.

“Are you… human?” I began.

He looked down at his lap, to where he picked at his fingers. After a long moment, he shook his head.

I brought my drink to my mouth to buy time to organize my thoughts, my questions, but Angel moved first. He ran a light finger over the faded white scar on my forehead.

“I was thinking about that night too,” I admitted.

“Do you remember what they told you and my parents about internal decapitations?”

Of course I remembered. I was only fifteen, but I’d be damned if the nurses kicked me out of Angel’s room; they stopped trying after a week. There was a fancier term for what happened to Angel, but the normal-people word they used haunted me for years.Stillhaunted me. They called it internal decapitation: Angel’s skull had completely broken away from his spine.

“They said that most cases don’t make it to the hospital.”

Angel bobbed his head. “It’s usually fatal, especially in adults.”

And he was an angel. My heart raced, my grip tightening on my mug. “What are you trying to tell me, Angel?”

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth, and I fought the urge to tug it free.

“I died that night,” he finally signed. “When I hit the roof of the car and broke my neck, I died instantly.” As if he knew I would argue, he kept signing. “The medic who responded to the call that night was…” He paused and wiped his hands on his jeans. He was shaking, but it wasn’t the violent convulsions from last night. Unable to stand it, I set my coffee on the table and pulled him into my arms.

Angel took a couple of deep breaths, nuzzling into my neck and relaxing. I tried to ignore the way it made me feel, but it was impossible. If there was a way to keep Angel in my arms forever, I would take it in a heartbeat.

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