Page 30 of Don't Bite the Boy Next Door
“Well hopefully not for long,” he smiles gently at me, “having him with you is obviously a good thing. You seem happy.”
‘It’s not Lars making me happy. Wait, is that what this is about? Could he think I’m involved with Lars?’
“Lars won’t be staying for much longer, I don’t think,” I smile now, “he is going back to his girlfriend in Geneva, it was just a short visit.”
“Oh?” he raises one eyebrow.
“Yes, so ah, well, I have to go. Visiting hours are up. Are they letting you out any time soon?”
“A couple of days,” he frowns, “my lungs aren’t what they should be; apparently the fall exacerbated an old injury. A few more days should set things to rights. And they say my temperature is fluctuating wildly, so,” he shrugs, “I guess I will stay until they sort that out.”
“Is the injury related to the scar on your side?” I blurt without thinking.
“Yes,” his face shuts down. “Goodnight, Tess.”
“Night.” I rise quickly, feeling as though I’d once again overstepped some invisible boundary, but not knowing what that is and wishing I could eat my words.
“Actually, there is something I need,” he says when I get to the door. I think I almost hear a note of apology in his tone, as though he recognises he snapped, and wishes he hadn’t.
I turn, meeting his eyes.
“Of course.”
“On my kitchen table I have a set of books, furniture design books. Would you mind bringing them to me, if it isn’t too much trouble? I may as well keep studying while I’m bed-ridden.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night, Grumpy,” I smile.
His chuckles follow me out of the room, and I feel like I’m walking on cloud nine as I head to the car.
“I didn’t see any blinding white light or anything if that is what you’re going to ask me,” he smirks, not looking at me as he flicks absentmindedly through the books I dropped off earlier this evening, as requested.
I’d been pleasantly surprised when he’d asked if I’d stay and keep him company for a while tonight, surprised and delighted. And I’m even more so at the ease in which we are conversing. He seems more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him, although sweat beads on his brow and his face is flushed. He says it’s nothing to worry about, but I’ve seen the way the nurse frowns at his charts. Nevertheless, I’ve come to cheer him, so I don’t mention my concern.
“No,” I shake my head now, laughing quietly, “I didn’t expect you would. I just wondered…”
He shakes his head. “There’s no life after death, Tess, if you ask me. Or if there is, it’s not anything I’ve ever seen – and I’ve seen a lot of death.”
“Me too,” I murmur, my humour suddenly dissipating.
He smiles at me as I study his face, no doubt amused at my reference to my job – and completely unaware that this is not what I am talking about at all.
I wonder what he would think if I told him what I was, the living, well almost, embodiment of life after death. I wonder if we could compare war stories. If he would think whatever he did or experienced in service overseas was anywhere near as disgustingly brutal as the things I had been forced to do, and witness, in my long-long life. I don’t think so.
“What are you thinking?” he asks suddenly, startling me. This isn’t the kind of question I expect from him, although I’m discovering he isn’t anything like the kind of man I was expecting. He’s funny, in a rueful kind of way, thoughtful, deep. He seems changed to me now, not as sad as he was when he first moved in, as though the countryside had been the balm he needed, just as Pru had suggested. Sitting here with him, there are long stretches of silence, but I’m learning it’s a comfortable silence.
“Nothing, why?”
“You had that pensive, faraway look you had when I first met you,” he says quietly. “I don’t see it so often now.”
“I could say the same for you,” I wrinkle my nose at him. “You know Pru described you as ‘sexy in a brooding kind of way.”
He snorts. “Did she? I can honestly say she couldn’t be more wrong, I’m anything but.”
“I think you are,” I blurt, blushing, “sexy, I mean. I ugh, I mean, never-mind.”
“Tess,” he shakes his head, murmuring, his voice suddenly laden with grief, “don’t. I’m not brooding or sexy, I’m Grumpy remember? I’m not the prince.”
“Would you be? If you could?” I whisper, “be the prince, I mean?”
