Page 109 of Worthy

“I bought the absorbent pads. They should arrive in thirty minutes or so.”

“Wait, really?” She sounds shocked.

“I can read instructions. Now you’re just being insulting.”

Her lilting laugh tells me I made a joke without intending to. It happens quite often. “Just be…gentle with him. This wasn’t any old surgery—he’s going through something really vulnerable and important.”

“I’m aware.” She doesn’t know that I held him the night that he broke open into the person he’s become. “I think I can manage not to physically or mentally traumatize him.”

“This means so much to me, Dad, and I know it means the world to Kota too.”

Tracing my finger along the countertop between empty takeout containers, I try to hold onto the warmth in her voice. I’ve felt nothing but cold for months. But she hangs up too quickly.

I have standing instructions with the grocery delivery service to leave the bag on the step so I don’t have to see anyone. After thirty minutes, I open the front door to find the supplies waiting. Once I’ve accounted for everything, I carry the paper bag upstairs. A glance into Kota’s room confirms that he’s still asleep, so I set it on the floor outside his door and head back to my office.

The library plans are due next week whether I’m drowning in grief or not; after three months, Brendan’s death is no longer considered an acceptable excuse for missing deadlines. I spread everything out on my table and attack the plans with my pen, adding and changing elements until I can no longer see my best friend’s face staring back at me.

My bed has sat untouched since I lost Brendan. I drift off in random places, my worn-out body snatching enough sleep here and there to keep me functioning. Tonight, I wake up with my forehead pressed against the desk and my back aching. According to my phone, it’s just after midnight; I’ve been out for three hours.

At first, I think the faint cry from downstairs is Sable complaining about her empty food dish. When it comes again, I hear the shape of my name in the pitiful sound.

“Shit.” Scrambling to my feet, I stumble down the stairs in the dark so fast I almost slip. When I reach the landing, Kota’s voice calls out for me again, hoarse and scared. I’ve already managed to fail Mallory’s trust in me.

I flick on the hall light, then push the door halfway open. The yellow glow spills across the bed and illuminates Kota’s exhausted face and anxious, chocolate-colored eyes.

“I’m here.” I sit on the mattress next to his hip, unsure if I should touch him or not. “What’s wrong?”

He buries his face in his hands and takes a shaky breath. “I needed to pee, but I couldn’t move or sit up, and then my phone fell on the floor. I started to panic— I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” I mumble, voice still rough with sleep. “Let’s just fix it.” Hooking one arm under his legs, I slip the other behind his sweaty back and lift him to the edge of the mattress. He spreads his bare toes into the carpet, as if to reassure himself that he’s safe. “Can you use the toilet on your own?”

He nods and shuffles toward the bathroom. Listening for any sounds of distress, I fetch the medical supplies from the hall and arrange them on top of the empty dresser. When I look up, he’s standing next to the bed, hugging himself protectively. “Can we wait to change the dressings? I don’t think I’m ready.”

This requires sensitivity, which means I’m fucked. I know I’m right, and it’s hard not to simply demand that he sit down and do what’s best for him. “It’s unhygienic to leave you in dirty dressings. They’re an infection risk.”

“But—” His eyes beg me to understand.

Putting down the box of wipes, I rest a hand on his shoulder, squeezing until he holds my gaze. He’s not logical at all, but something about him tugs at softer parts of me I didn’t know existed. “You can keep your eyes closed if you’re not ready to see.”

He swallows, his voice a whisper. “Okay.”

I review the instructions in my head as I wash my hands. When I sit down next to him and feel for the edge of the binder, he tenses.

“I’m not a nurse, but I’ll do my best. Tell me if I’m hurting you.”

With a quick nod, he turns his face away and closes his eyes. The velcro sounds deafening in the silence as I pull the binder open. After I peel up the two dirty pads and toss them in the trash by my knee, I realize I’m the first person to see his new chest. It’s swollen and bruised, with tape along the incisions and two drains which will be removed at his post-op appointment in a couple of days.

“Um…” I survey everything again. “Awkward question.”

“Yes?” Scrunching his eyes shut tighter, he reaches blindly toward me until his hand finds my arm. “Jamie, is something wrong with it?”

“Are you supposed to have nipples? Because, uh, they aren’t there.”

To my surprise, he snorts loudly, wrinkling his nose and trying to suppress a giggle. “No, I’m not. You can choose to have them grafted back on, but I didn’t want to because the results can be unpredictable.” His voice gets quieter. “Does it look gross without them?”

“I’ve never found nipples to be an important consideration when I’m admiring an attractive man’s chest.” As my brain processes the words, I cringe. Kota cracks one eye open to peer at me. “That wasn’t intended to imply that I’m attracted to you.”

“Oh.”

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