Page 63 of My Best Friend Is Broken
He sighs but complies, unbuttoning his shirt with movements that are slightly more careful than usual. When he shrugs out of it, I can see the problem, a cut on his upper arm, maybe three inches long, not deep but definitely needing attention.
I try to focus on the medical aspects of the situation, but it’s hard to ignore the fact that Nicky is sitting on the closed toilet lid, shirtless, his chest and shoulders displayed in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Prison didn’t exactly provide opportunities to appreciate the male form in a healthy context. And Nicky has certainly filled out since we were teenagers. Broader shoulders, more defined muscle, the kind of physical presence that speaks of regular exercise and good nutrition.
I force myself to concentrate on cleaning the wound, standing between his spread legs to get the proper angle,hyperaware of our proximity and the warmth radiating from his skin.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly, dabbing antiseptic on the cut.
“No, it’s fine.”
It’s clearly a lie, but I don’t push. I don’t ask how it happened either. Some things are better left unknown, especially when they involve the kind of work that leaves people with cuts that need first aid.
I work in silence, carefully cleaning the wound and assessing the damage. The cut is clean but deeper than I initially thought, with edges that will need proper closure to heal correctly.
“I’m putting Steri-Strips on it for now,” I tell him, “but it’s going to need stitches.”
“Okay, I’ll call the Ajello doctor tomorrow.”
Of course the mafia have their own doctors. Of course there’s a whole infrastructure of medical professionals who ask no questions and keep no records, who understand that some injuries are better handled privately.
When I finish with the bandaging, I don’t immediately step away. Can’t quite bring myself to break the spell of intimacy that’s settled over us. The quiet bathroom, the way my fingers were just brushing over his skin. The trust involved in letting me tend to his injury.
We stare at each other, and I can feel the tension and longing that’s been simmering between us for days finally reaching a breaking point. Not the desperate, twisted need that led to pills and bathroom walls and nearly destroyed us both, but something gentler. More real.
I think this is what love is supposed to feel like.
Nicky’s good arm comes up slowly, his hand settling on my waist with the kind of careful reverence that makes my breath catch. He pulls me closer, and I don’t resist, letting him guide me until I’m sitting on his thigh, away from his injured arm, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
“Liam,” he whispers, my name a question and a promise all at once.
“Yes,” I whisper back, not sure what I’m agreeing to, but certain that whatever it is, I want it.
He kisses me, and it’s nothing like the desperate collision from that terrible night that happened in this very bathroom. This is soft, exploratory, the kind of kiss that has all the time in the world and doesn’t need to prove anything except that we care about each other.
His soft lips move over mine. A simple contact of skin that sends fizzing sensations to every single part of my body. I feel the kiss in my knees and toes. Even my ears are heating from it. Nicky is everywhere. Nicky is everything.
It’s wonderful. Perfect in its imperfection, healing in its gentleness, a bridge between the people we used to be and whoever we’re becoming together.
When we finally break apart, I rest my forehead against his, both of us breathing hard despite the kiss being relatively chaste.
“We’re going to figure this out,” he says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I actually believe him.
“Yeah,” I agree, my hand finding its way to rest against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my palm. “We are.”
It’s not a grand declaration or a promise that everything will be perfect from now on. It’s just acknowledgment thatwe’re both willing to keep trying, to keep showing up for each other, to keep believing that love can grow stronger than the things that tried to break us.
Sitting here in our bathroom, with Nicky shirtless and bandaged and looking at me like I’m something precious, I think maybe that’s enough.
Maybe it’s everything.
Chapter twenty-one
Nicky
Liam is in my bed again. He wasn’t here when I first went to sleep, but at some point in the night I rolled over and he was there. Now, in the early predawn light, we are tangled together and it is wonderful.
The nights he went back to the other room were awful. He needed space, but my bed felt so cold and empty. I’m so very glad he is back in my arms where he belongs.
