Page 92 of Versions Of Us

“I think we should go. It’s late,” I tell him.

“I’m okay here,” he argues.

“I’m not okay with leaving you here,” I say. “Come on. Let’s go.”

He groans as I stand up, extending my arm out to him. He stares at my hand a moment before he finally reaches for it, and I use all of my strength to pull him up. He staggers a little, so I tell him to lean on my shoulder. He’s too strong though and I stumble under his weight, but with great difficulty I manage to guide him to the esplanade. EJ spots us when we reach the front doors of the tavern, rushing to our aid.

“Henley, what happened?” EJ asks, slightly panicked.

Henley doesn’t appear to be in any condition to answer. His eyelids flutter as he loses his balance again. The short walk hasn’t seemed to sober him up in the slightest.

“I found him by the river,” I tell EJ. “He was almost passed out on the park bench.”

“Shit. We were having drinks, then he started doing shots behind the bar. Next thing I knew he’d disappeared.” EJ says to me, then to Henley he asks, “Are you good, man?”

Henley offers a nod, blinking slowly.

“Help me get him upstairs,” I say to EJ.

EJ goes to Henley’s other side and together we lead him up to the loft. Thankfully the loft isn’t a huge space, and we don’t have to struggle far to get him to the bed. When he reaches the mattress, he falls down onto it in a heap.

“Thanks, EJ.”

“No worries. I’m sorry you had to find him like this, Kristen. I should have kept a better eye on him.” EJ frowns, a hint of guilt in his expression.

“It’s okay. You aren’t his keeper,” I reply. “You weren’t to know.”

“Yeah, I guess. I still feel a little responsible,” he sighs.

Henley stirs on the bed behind me.

“He’s a grown man, EJ. He should know better.”

“Don’t be too hard on him. He’s fighting some pretty badass demons.” EJ looks at me like he wants to say something he shouldn’t, but then he turns on his heel and descends the loft stairs two at a time.

I turn my attention back to Henley, watching as he drifts in and out of consciousness. I circle the end of the bed. I pull his shoes off one at a time and drop them to the floor, then I perch beside him on the edge of the mattress. His arm is splayed out beside me, painted in swirls of black and coloured ink. I trace the lines with the tip of my finger, something I’d always done when we were together. If he feels it, he doesn’t let on.

I brush a strand of hair from his forehead. He looks so peaceful as he lays here. So innocent. He doesn’t look like someone capable of breaking a heart into thousands of tiny pieces.

Of crushing dreams of a happy future into dust.

He looks like someone who could love me.

Someone I could love back.

“Stay,” he murmurs, his eyes opening slowly to reveal arctic irises. “Everything is calmer when you’re around. Better.” His eyelids flutter closed again, an exhausted sigh escaping him as his head rolls to the other side. “You quiet the noise.”

“Careful, Alex,” I whisper. “It sounds like you still love me.”

I don’t expect a response. Especially not the one he gives me.

“I can’t not love you.”

It comes out so low, I’m sure I’ve imagined it at first, but there’s no mistaking the words I’ve heard him say so many times before.

His breathing slows and when I’m certain he’s asleep, I sit in the quiet as another minute passes.

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” I whisper as I stand and tiptoe down the stairs and back out into the night.

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