My grand declaration is too much for Sol. His eyes roll and he passes out, for real, and it would probably scare the shit out of me if I didn’t know exactly how it feels to have emotion and physical trauma collide.
I let him sleep, and that’s how the next few days of our lives play out. I get a taste of how it feels for him to see me so incapacitated and I can’t stand it.
But I love him.
Ilovehim.
Enough to take care of him and myself both. I eat and sleep like a pro. And after Sol is moved to a regular ward, I even leave a few times to check on Fiadh in Saltkiss Bay and take in the fact that Folk’s husband and Orla O’Brian are currently running my pub.
It’s an easy reality to live with.
I don’t feel much except bemused gratitude. And I reckon Sol would feel the same if he was up to talking much.
He isn’t.
And it gets me wondering if he’s taking so long to recover because he was so depleted and run down in the first place. Awonder that becomes a reality when Oscar is discharged first and Sol’s funky blood tests mean he has to stay.
“This is hell,” he tells me on his third day on the ward, once Sev and Lisa have left. “How does anyone sleep in this pit?”
I have no idea. Day and night, the ward is loud and chaotic. On the sixth day, Skylar calls time on the whole thing and springs Sol on his way home from work.
It’s afternoon.
I’m in the flat and just rising from taking a nap before visiting hours. I’m not expecting Sol. But I feel no surprise when the front door creaks open and he shuffles in behind Skylar. Only relief. And love.
So much fucking love.
I’m there in a heartbeat. I loop an arm around his waist and guide him to his room. To his space with all the things that make him Sol. Colour and life, the scent of a burned-out incense cone still light in the air.
I can’t remember the last time he slept in his bed. I don’t want to—and I don’t want to remember the fatigue in him now either. The pain and discomfort as he sinks down and buries his face in his hands.
But I know I need to. That I need to understand every atom of what’s happened to him to even come close to paying forward the love and care he’s given me.
I crouch in front of him, hands on his knees. “You want a shower?”
Sol says something unintelligible.
I prise his hands from his face. “What’s that?”
“I might drown in it.”
“Not on my watch.”
Recognition flares in his eyes, of a phrase he’s so often said to me. I try to recall how many times he’s stood under the spray with his clothes on just to hold me up while I wash anotherseizure from my skin. But I can’t—there are too many, and my brain skids past them all.
I stand, taking Sol with me. And lead him back out of his room and into the bathroom.
He’s quiet as I strip him. Doesn’t look at the yellowed bruises mottling his skin.
I do. And I don’t shy away from how much weight he’s lost either. I face it and kiss his forehead. “You want me to get in with you?”
“You want that, Jackie?”
“Aye. I couldn’t be anywhere else right now.”
Sol nods, slowly, and leans against the sink as I lose my clothes and turn on the shower. The old pipes crank and whine. Steam fills the room and Sol rubs his chest, taking a deep breath that doesn’t rattle for the first time in forever.
“Come here.” I hold out my hand.