Like the kiss…right?
Never happening again. And neither will this, so I let it play out and try not to think about who I’ll be when Mal reclaims his hand.
I clear my plate.
I eatmorewhen Sol edges the potatoes my way, blocking out his obvious surprise. I eat until it’s my turn to see the album Aras drops in my lap, and it’s everything I need to ignore the fullness in my belly.
The album is of photographs taken on military film cameras. Grainy and blurred, the images seem older than they are, a snapshot of another world. Faces I don’t recognise until I find Jack, leaner than I’ve ever known him, even after his injury, grinning and happy.
I turn the page and find him smiling again, but it really is another world this time. He’s in the sky, gear strapped to him, no parachute yet, but it comes in the next photo, and the next, and the next.
Then I realise it’s not him. Somehow I’ve missed his face morphing into Mal’s, and it has me skipping back until I find where they switched and discover every page left in the album is all Mal.
Parachuting.
Skydiving.
Passed out drunk withtwatscrawled on his forehead.
“What does that say?” Aras peers over my shoulder.
“Wally.” I flip the page. “Like Uncle Sev when he drinks the dark beer.”
Sev chucks a fritter at me. Like he does anyone who makes fun of his propensity for losing his clothes every time he has one pint too many of the local porter.
He’s never chucked one at me, though, and I see the regret in his eyes as it leaves his hand. The panic as it flies across the table, a split second from hitting my face.
The shock as it’s snatched from the air by the hand Mal rips from my leg.
It happens so fast no one else notices, save Oscar. He beckons Aras to him and takes him to the sink to clean his dinner from his face. The dinner he’s eaten on Mal’s lap when I know this kid is shy as hell with strangers.
Mal lowers his closed fist, opening it to reveal the fritter he somehow hasn’t crushed. “These are good. You want it?”
There’s enough noise in the room that no one hears Mal’s question. But the words reverberate in my head like he’s bellowed them in my ear, and my stomach twists, already rebelling.
No.
No.
I fight it.
Mal watches, not giving an inch, and I want to throat-punch him as much as I miss his hand on my leg, the casual touch I mourn like a severed limb.
I give him a flat look. “You take your meds today, Mal?”
It’s hard to tell if he misses a beat, but I know he’s too sharp for the challenge in my dead tone to pass him by.
Too clever.
His gaze narrows a touch and he tilts his head just enough to up the ante. “Twice.”
Twice? Forced apathy and concern war for dominance. But I already know he’s not going to tell me shit if I don’t eat the fritter he’s still brandishing like a fucking prize. And I shouldn’t care. I should be gone from this table already, hiding away in the sanctuary of my room, playing chicken with the bathroom.Sleeping, before I go back to work for another early overtime shift.
Trouble is, I do care, and I tell myself it’s because I have to. That I owe it to Sol for making him believe he can’t tellme whatever’s putting him in danger. To Jack for reasons my fucked-up brain hasn’t thought of yet. But the truth is, I care because I’m losing the will to force myself not to, and the guard I patch over every time he gets too close…it gives way like the snap of a weak bone.
I have to know he’s okay.
I have the fritter out of his hand and in my mouth before the devil in me has a chance to question it. It’s still warm and probably tastes good, but it’s cardboard to me—cardboard and grease, and only a decade of practice keeps it where it needs to be long enough to swallow it down. This heavythingthat sits in my throat like a wet rag while Mal watches, the rest of the room still oblivious to a battle of wills I’m not going to lose.