Page 16 of Afterglow
I’m gonna have to thank the chef, because I go from struggling through a slow walk across the room to a steady jog along the canal in a matter of days. No sign of headache, either.
I laugh through panted breaths and clap once in victory before heading back home. Fourteen days have gone by in a blur, and I made it through.
Tomorrow, I’ll attempt a trip to the gym, I tell myself while entering the apartment and slipping off my sneakers.
But I’m not prepared for what awaits me. Or who, rather.
Behraz Irani is curled up on the couch with all the blackout curtains drawn. A picked-at take-out container of poutine and a half-empty handle of whiskey sit on the coffee table.
She’s still here? The homecare nurse already cleared me. Maybe she feels guilty, but it’s not a big deal. Concussions are practically in the job description of professional hockey players.
For two weeks, I barely survived her curious brown eyes peeking through the door to check on me. Two weeks of stolenglances across the living area, when exiting our rooms, were too close for comfort. But now? There’s no avoiding her.
Music plays from the large TV. Subtitles sit at the bottom of the screen as a woman stands in the middle of a field, drenched from the rain and visibly crying. The camera pans to a scene at a temple where another woman dressed in traditional Indian clothing wails while dancing to a folksy, heart-wrenching tune into the clouds above her. Definitely the type of Bollywood movie Landon and Wade watch all the time. Those two are obsessed.
Obsessed? I’m one to talk. Or not talk.
The subject of my obsession has been living in my house, and I haven’t managed to say a word to her. She’s right here, and yet, I don’t dare to open my mouth.
A chunky knit pink blanket drapes over her head and shoulders, the panels held together at her chest like a burrito. She shifts. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I inch closer to the couch to get a better view of the TV. Then Behraz sniffles. My throat clears, not by any intention of my own, and it catches her attention.
She gasps out a sob and whips her head to me.
Streaked tears stain her reddened cheeks. Usually bright, brown eyes cloud with pain.
Something breaks. It’s my heart.
“Oh,” I say aloud.
Behraz leaps up from her seat and launches onto me, wailing. I nearly lose my footing when her arms circle my neck, damp tears smearing the chest of my t-shirt.
It nearly killed me the first time Behraz Irani touched me like this. And not just because of the bicycle crash. Her hands on me,God, they feel as close to paradise as possible. My entire body goes stiff. Both hands twitch, wanting to rid her of whatever hurt she’s feeling. She deserves comfort.
You don’t have words, Fletch, but you can do this.
I soften and wrap her in a hold, lifting her until her face buries in my shoulder. Her loose, dark hair surrounds me, full, lush, and silken. The cotton of her pants swishes against the exposed skin covering my knees. She continues to wrack through heavy sobs as I lower us until we’re seated on the couch.
I should stop thinking about how good she feels. So soft and warm. Need to stop breathing the delirium-inducing smell of roses from her skin and saltwater from her tears. It has my nervous system in pieces. Need to ignore how close we are, how my heart is almost touching hers. But goddamn, I’m a selfish bastard. I don’t want to stop.
“I’m”—she snivels through the trickle of snot between her cute little nose and tempting set of pink lips—“so…sorry!” Her face returns to my collarbone, tight grasp moving from my neck to fisting my shirt. I angle my hips away from her, afraid the contact will signal my half-hard cock to move into phase two. She lifts her head and glances up, expression painted with turmoil. “I messed up! Everything is all messed up!”
“Uh?” My armpits sweat with a fury.
“No matter how hard I try”—her head sways against me in disbelief—“nothing goes right in my life.”
So, we have something in common.
“I failed the bar examsthreetimes. It’s an open textbook exam! The answers are right in front of my eyes, and I still can’t get it done on time. I’ve been beating myself up, like, how can I be so stupid?”
You’re not, I want to say, but nothing comes out. I keep quiet and listen.
“Turns out, I’m not stupid. Nope. I have a learning disability and ADHD, and the time constraint is the reason I haven’t been able to pass. And it’s all so expensive! The exam, the ADHDassessment, the therapy. So, of course, I’d get kicked out of my sublease?—”
Wait, what? Kicked out?
“My roommate’s boyfriend took it over and paid the back rent I owed. I guess I should be thankful I don’t have to pay for it. I wish I could go back to my brother’s place, but he moved to Muscat with my parents. I sold my piece of shit car because I couldn’t afford gas or insurance or to fix it up all the time. I’m closer to thirty than twenty, and I ride a banged-up city bike with a fucking basket on it all around Ottawa like a primary schoolgirl. I have no money, no place lined up to live next, and I haven’t told anyone because everyone already thinks I’m a clumsy, absent-minded fuck-up. Admitting all this to them would just be the cherry on the shit sundae. They’d know what a fucking broke-ass failure I am.”
Behraz takes a shaky inhale before continuing.
