Lost in a Moment (Trials of Fear Book 4) Page 4

  “All right. You’re good for today,” Christian said as he finished wrapping my residual limb again. “Need anything else before I go?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks. I think I have bathroom trips down to a science now.”

  “Great.”

  Christian patted my shoulder and slipped out the door before my parents slipped in. I hobbled upright, using the chair to stabilize myself on one leg and hopped awkwardly to the bed before climbing in.

  I hated and refused to use the wheelchair—especially for short distances.

  “Oh, sweetheart, let your dad help you.”

  “I’m fine, Mom. I need to do this myself.”

  “Then at least use the crutches for crying out loud. Grayson, you’ll hurt yourself.”

  I wasn’t sure that was possible. My wounded pride stung far worse than any bump or bruise I might incur from falling over.

  “Vivian…” my dad warned.

  She clucked her tongue and frowned as I adjusted myself on the bed and set the backrest at a comfortable height. Once I was settled, she pulled her chair right up close to my bedside and took my hand, stroking the top.

  “You are so stubborn.”

  “I’m not. I just need to sort this all out by myself right now. This is my life, I have to learn to live with it.”

  “Come home with us, Gray. Until you feel more comfortable. I know you want to be independent, but I just think you aren’t seeing the whole picture. Getting around, dressing, bathing, those are challenging enough, but what about cooking, cleaning, and shopping for yourself? Have you considered those challenges? And driving. You won’t be driving anytime soon.”

  My stomach dropped. Sure, I’d run lists of all the things I wouldn’t be able to do immediately through my head, but hearing them all clumped together painted an ugly picture of my near future. She was right. Living on my own at this point would be borderline impossible.

  “I could get a nurse in to help me.”

  She dropped my hand and turned to Dad. “Oh for heaven’s sake. Would you talk to your son.”

  Dad slid his chair closer to Mom’s and wrapped an arm around her. “Gray is an adult, and the decision will be up to him. Give the boy some space. I’m sure he’s not disregarding our offer.”

  Dad pinned me with a hard glare that spoke volumes. It said, “Get over your pride and stop being an idiot. You know you need help.”

  Sighing, I wiped a hand down my face and closed my eyes. “Just let me think, Mom. My head is all messed up right now. Okay? It’s a lot to take in.”

  “Should we ask that nice psychiatrist to come back and talk to you? What’s her name? Dr. Kelsey?”

  “Kelby,” Dad corrected. “Dr. Kelby. Should I ask them to call her in?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “The doctor said depression under these circumstances is a big possibility. It wouldn’t hurt talking to her again if—”

  “Mom. I’m fine. Just overwhelmed. Please, can we drop it?”

  “Vivian, let’s let the boy sleep a bit. He looks worn out.”

  “Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Of course. Physio takes a lot out of you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, even though that wasn’t the reason for my exhaustion. It was easier than saying I’d had enough of their company and needed some quiet time alone.

  They gathered their coats and stood by my bed, exchanging hugs and kisses.

  “We’ll be back at eight with coffee and breakfast,” Mom informed me. “You call if you need anything.”

  “I will. Thanks for grabbing my phone for me.”

  “No problem,” Dad said. “We can probably get other things if you need them. Just let us know.”

  I wished I had my Kindle, but I didn’t bother mentioning it. My parents had brought me a stack of novels the first week I was there, and I hadn’t read half of them, so having my Kindle wasn’t necessary. When I decided where I was going once I was discharged, I’d sort out my belongings.

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  Once they’d departed, I turned my phone back on and went through the dozens of messages and texts I’d missed. Most were from co-workers, sending their condolences and best wishes for a quick recovery. There were a few from Beck and a number from distant relatives who were checking in.

  I took some time to respond to them all before setting my phone aside. Pulling a tattered Stephen King novel from the bedside table, I thumbed it open to where my bookmark was wedged between pages.

  As a teenager, I’d been obsessed with Stephen King, so that was what Mom had brought. She’d gone to a second-hand store and grabbed all the books she could find that he’d written. I gave her credit for remembering, even though I’d moved past Stephen King years ago. It was surprisingly nice diving back into his work.

  Reading helped take my mind off my situation. It was the only time I seemed to be able to get out of my head for a bit and settle my thoughts. The pain in my leg dimmed, my frantic worry lessened, and the ticking of the clock washed away into the background. Before long, I was lost in the intense plot and surrounded in a world that wasn’t my own.

  A crisp ding from my phone startled me out of the story, and I grabbed it, checking the text. It was Beck.

  Beck: Name your poison. I’m just leaving the shop to grab dinner.

  Dinner time? Already? My stomach sank as I craned my neck to check the clock on the wall. A wash of heat flooded my body when I realized it was five in the evening. Where had the time gone? How was it that late already? My heart rate kicked up a notch and beads of sweat grew across my brow.

  I licked my lips and tried to refocus on Beck’s question, ignoring the growing anxiety fighting for domination.

  Gray: I’d kill for some Thai.

  Beck: Done! Be there shortly.

  With a steady pulse growing louder in my ears, I set my phone aside just as a nurse came through with a covered tray of food. It really was dinnertime.

  I didn’t bother telling her I wouldn’t eat it. Once she’d set it on my table, I thanked her and watched as she slipped from the room.

  I cracked my knuckles and turned again to be sure I’d read the clock right. As though punctuating my concern, it ticked louder. I worked at ignoring it, but its steady metronome in the background sounded above the hospital noises, growing in intensity and volume.

  Addison came with my evening medications and watched as I took them with a bit of water. She ran through her routine vital checks and frowned when she took my pulse and blood pressure.

  “You feeling okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Just had a bit of panic a second ago. I’m all right.”

  She scrutinized me and checked a few of my vitals a second time before jotting notes on my chart. Great. I hoped it didn’t amount to anything. I needed to get a grip, or it wouldn’t be my mother calling for the shrink, it would be my nurse.

  Once she’d gone, I looked at the clock again. Twenty minutes had passed.

  Tick, tick, tick…

  I rattled my head and looked away.

  Too much confinement, I told myself. Once I was out of the hospital, this misplaced panic would subside. It was only because I’d been stationary for too long. It had to be.

  With those thoughts came others. What was I going to do once I was discharged? Where would I go? The idea of traveling home with my parents made me ill. Not that I didn’t love them, but it would be hell if I was stuck with them every day. Mom’s excessive concern would be the death of me. I’d grown up in a bubble—and that was as a healthy child with four intact limbs.

  Startling me from my thoughts, Beck appeared with a light rap on the doorframe before he entered carrying a large brown paper bag.

  “Hey, hey. How you holding up?”

  Stuffing my concerns aside, I shifted uncomfortably and smiled. “Starving.”

  The rich scent of spices permeated the air when Beck opened the bag. My stomach rumbled loud enough we both laughed.

  “Excellen
t. I got all your favorites. Spicy shrimp soup, extra-spicy pad Thai, cashew chicken, and a mess of spring rolls, among about a million other options. Oh…” He dug into the pocket of his coat and tossed a small packet of something on the bed beside me. “And Tums because you’re an idiot and we both know you’ll have heartburn after eating this spicy crap.”

  I laughed. He knew me too well.

  Beck handed me a container of food with a crooked smile and a wink that grew a lump in my throat. The action caused a fluttering of desire to bloom just under my skin, making me feel alive. As he fished inside the brown paper bag for more items, I paused and stared at him. Beck knew me inside and out. Sometimes, I was convinced he knew me better than myself.

  For over a decade, I’d been fighting back random bouts of overwhelming emotions when it came to this man. He brought out feelings in me I knew weren’t healthy or fair, but I clung to them nonetheless. Being at such a low point made it harder to push them away, and I welcomed the flood of good for a brief moment, wishing—not for the first time—that our lives were different.

  No man I’d dated or hooked up with had ever compared to Beck, and it was entirely unfair that I even judged them on the same scale, but I did. It was unintentional, yet sadly, unavoidable too.

  Fifteen years loving him the wrong way, and fifteen years hating on every girl he introduced me to, talked about, fucked, or made eye contact with. It made me question just what kind of friend I was most days.

  His perpetually messy mass of light brown curls that had a mind of their own, his wide, face-splitting smile that could cheer me up even in the darkest hours, his dark-framed glasses that hid his soulful, hazel eyes, and the constant state of unshaven scruff that darkened his cheeks, chin, and neck all reflected Beck’s cluttered, crazy mind that worked a million miles a minute. A mind that obsessed over the strangest of things. He was brilliantly smart and unbelievably quirky.

  His outward appearance barely managed to capture the intensity of the man inside. He was someone I’d admired and leaned on since we were eight years old and played Sherlock Holmes and Watson in my childhood backyard. Someone I’d loved, long before I knew that I was gay and Beck wasn’t. Before I understood the complexities of life. Beck was my world, and I’d spent far too many years living it without telling him how I truly felt. It would only be an unfair admission and would make our relationship uncomfortable.

  Beck placed a smorgasbord of food containers on the bedside table and handed me a plastic fork.

  “Dig in before your stomach starts eating itself.”

  I unwrapped my plastic utensil and admired the selections. “This is way more food than we need.”

  “Oh well. Do you have access to a fridge? I can leave it for you. Save you having to eat hospital food. I mean, this stuff can’t be good.” He poked the unopened tray of hospital food I’d ignored.

  “I don’t even want to look. I’ve eaten enough of that crap for a lifetime. I appreciate this. Not sure there’s a fridge, though.”

  “No problem. I’ll bring it home and store it for you. I can always bring it back tomorrow. Whatever you need, man. I’m home now. You call me. Don’t hesitate. Anything. You know that.”

  My heart tripped over itself, and I had to refocus on my food so the flood of emotions wouldn’t surface. Nearly two weeks feeling sorry for myself and managing to hold it all together, then Beck showed up, and I wanted to breakdown from relief.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes. The flavors excited my taste buds. I’d missed good food. Not that the daily breakfast my parents brought wasn’t good, but the Thai was over the top.

  “So what’s the plan?” Beck asked after a long lull in the conversation.

  “Plan?”

  “When are you being discharged?”

  “Not sure yet. Stitches come out soon, and I believe I’ll be sent packing not long after.”

  “And?”

  I shoveled more cashew chicken into my mouth and chewed before answering. “I don’t know for sure. The house isn’t livable until it gets some serious repairs. Mom wants me to go home.”

  Beck flinched, and his brows met in the middle. “To Winnipeg? Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I don’t really know what to do. My insurance would probably cover somewhere to live and maybe a nurse to help me out on occasion, but… Mom’s right. I don’t know that I can do this alone just yet.”

  Beck chewed what was in his mouth and sat straighter, placing his container of food aside as he shook his head. “Nuh-uh, no way. You aren’t leaving the province.”

  “What choice do I have? Do you think I want to go home and live with my smothering mother?”

  “Fuck that, come stay with me. Why is this even up for debate?”

  I laughed, ignoring the blooming warmth skimming the surface of my skin. “Yeah, I appreciate it, but that isn’t going to work.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Beck, seriously, think about it.” I took a stuttering breath, shoving down the spike of anticipation his suggestion brought before I jumped all over it. “You live above the shop. Stairs are going to be hell for me.”

  “I’ll help you. It’s not impossible.”

  “Every time I have to go up and down?”

  “Yes!”

  I sighed. “Your apartment is… tiny.”

  “It’s not! What are you talking about? It’s as big as the shop only loft style. The square footage is bigger than most one-bedroom apartments in the city.”

  I stared at Beck’s confusion, wishing there was an easier way to say this without working him up. “Beck, I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you’re practically a hoarder. I struggle getting around in your apartment on a good day because you have so much stuff piled up everywhere. How am I going to manage with a bum leg? Think about it.”

  His jaw dropped. “I am not a hoarder. I am a collector. There is a difference.”

  “Tell that to the Beatles.”

  Beck raised an eyebrow and pointed an accusatory finger at me. “They never complain.”

  “Do you remember that time you called me all frantic because you thought you lost Ringo?”

  Beck’s frown intensified. “That means nothing.”

  “He got lost in his own home and couldn’t find his way out again!”

  “One time.”

  I laughed, and Beck couldn’t hide his smile. “Come on, man. I appreciate the offer, but your place isn’t really suitable for a cripple.”

  “Fuck that, Gray. Don’t call yourself that. I’ll make it suitable. I’ll… tidy.”

  It needed more than tidied, but I didn’t bother arguing, choosing a different angle instead.

  “You have one bed.”

  “I’ll crash on the couch.”

  “It’s some Victorian, hard-backed settee. It’s not even a couch. There is barely room for two grown men to sit on it never mind lie down or sleep. Plus, no offense, but that thing is so uncomfortable.”

  “It is not!”

  “Come on, Beck. Be realistic.”

  “Okay, fine, then we’ll share the bed. What the fuck ever. It’s not like we haven’t shared a damn bed a million times growing up.”

  I swallowed the bulging lump from my throat and ignored the blistering heat growing out of my belly and running rampant throughout my body at his suggestion.

  That was a terrible idea.

  “You’re not thinking,” I countered.

  “You’re being a stubborn ass. Do you want to go home to Winnipeg and live back under your mother’s over-protective thumb? Did you lose your memory as well as your leg and forget the first eighteen years of your life, bubble boy?”

  “No. But come on, think about what you’re saying. You have women over all the time. I’m going to be in the way.” I couldn’t stop the bitter edge from sneaking into my tone, and I hoped Beck didn’t pick up on it.

  “You’re being difficult. I think I can curb my appetite for a couple of months or find somewhere else to
wander if needs arise. Believe me, you are way more important than a piece of ass.”

  I tried not to show the disgust I was feeling on my face. Beck had never been shy about the swinging door of women that came in and out of his life. It was seldom he got serious and dated anyone more than a month. The tiny amount of hope that grew when he claimed I was more important than those women died almost immediately. It didn’t mean what I’d always wished it meant, so there was no point hoping.

  When I didn’t speak, Beck cut in again.

  “So, it’s settled. Don’t fight me on this. When you get discharged, you come home with me. End of discussion.”

  This was a terrible, terrible, terrible idea. Not only was Beckett’s entire living space one giant hazard for a recent amputee, but what if I needed help with personal care, like showering? Fuck!

  “Maybe I’ll contact my insurance company and see what they can offer first.”

  “Stop. You will not. This is done. The end. Over. Eat your damn food before it’s cold.”

  Chapter Four

  Beckett

  “Maria, Maria!” I sang as I bounced down the backstairs from my apartment. The hollow thunk of the wood under my boots rang through the air as I dodged and jumped awkwardly around an accumulation of dusty books and half-filled boxes that had been piled off to the side of every other step. “I need your help. Desperately.”

  I squeezed between two unused display cases we were storing in the backroom and burst through the 1960s style wooden beaded curtain leading into the front of the shop. The clinking of the hanging strands was music to my ears and why I’d chosen them instead of a door to begin with.

  That and it looked cool.

  Scanning the front room, I found Maria in the gift shop cashing out a mother and her two sons who looked to have purchased some of the rock fossils from the basket on the counter. The boys stood, heads together with big toothy smiles while comparing their selections as their mother fussed with her bank card in the machine. Maria caught my eye but held up a finger as she chatted happily with the other woman about the upcoming summer hours.