In the Lion's Teeth: Second Edition

Chapter Eighteen

For a very long time, you flutter in and out of wakefulness. Sometimes Dona is asleep and sometimes he's not, but even when you roll out of his lap in your sleep and wake up in a lumpy pile of blankets, he's still beside you, one arm slung over your stomach protectively, his breathing light and warm on the back of your neck.

By your guess, it's mid-afternoon when you whisper, "Are you awake?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel up to taking me home?"

"Do you?"

You close your eyes and sigh. You lick your lips, chapped and dry and salty. Your voice catches when you say, "It doesn't matter. You have to."

He's silent for a long while. All there is is static and breath and his hand on your hip.

"You need to help me flip the doorknob back, first," he finally says. "And I also need to you help me fix that hole in the wall."

"We can put your bookshelf in front of it," you offer weakly. But you'll fix it, because even now, you'll do anything for him.

"It won't matter," he says. "I'll know it's there and probably think rats or some other creature will get through it somehow. We have to patch it, but I need your help. I don't know how."

"What makes you think I do?"

"You're in engineering," he says flatly.

"That's construction work," you argue, but there's no fight in it, no meaning.

"Pascal." His voice is almost a frustrated whine.

"Okay," you whisper.

Silence again.

"I need to get some ibuprofen first," Dona murmurs. "My head hurts down into my shoulders. Do you want some coffee before we go to the hardware store?"

You nod, and you mean to say "yeah, thanks," but a sob tumbles out of your mouth instead.

He pulls you a little closer and holds you like you're the most precious, fragile thing in the world, and it cuts you up inside worse than the rusted steel your own bones are made of.

He plays light, swingy piano jazz as he makes the coffee and, even though it's nearing evening already, scrambled eggs on toast and some blueberry muffins from his neighbor. You sit and eat in silence.

But he talks on the car ride. About things. Nothing meaningful, nothing deep. He talks about a project he's working on outside of class and where he's thinking of going into research. Should he stay at a university or go to a hospital? Is he going to stay in state? What are you thinking of doing when you graduate?

Your answers are short and soft and tired, and he doesn't push you to say any more than you're willing to. When you pull up into the parking lot of the nearest hardware store, he turns to you and asks, "How much do patch kits generally cost?"

You shrug one shoulder and shake your head.

"Will twenty cover it?"

"Probably?"

He leans over to pull his wallet out of his pocket. He pulls out a credit card and hands to you. Your fingers wrap around it hesitantly, timid, like it will catch fire at any moment.

"What?"

"Will you go in for me?" he asks. "My headache is still too sharp to handle the lights and noise."

"What if they ask for ID?"

"They won't," he says. You finally look up at his face. The bruise is turning purple and green now, and his eyes are so tired, and it's your fault. "They'll hear your accent and they won't question it. Frenchmen are Frenchmen." He offers you a tentative smile, and you try to reciprocate, but you're not sure if your muscles are doing the right thing to make the expression you need. His smile starts to fade.