Cabin Fever - Roe Horvat Page 0,43

day?

He opened his eyes. “Vincent?” He smiled, a tired, but beautiful smile.

“Hey, Mikey.” My throat was still sore.

“More water?”

I nodded.

He brought the cup, and I drank, parched.

“That’s enough, tough guy.” He set the cup on the nightstand. “The nice nurse told me you need to take it slow, unless you want to puke.”

“Which day is it?”

Michael grinned. “Tuesday, June 15, 1983.”

“Very funny. You aren’t even born yet.”

“True. But it’s June fifteen. You’ve been in here for four days. They say you can come home next week.”

Home? And where will Michael go?

Shit. I hadn’t expected to have to face this so soon. We’d need to talk, but not yet. I wasn’t ready yet. I guessed some hidden part of my brain just assumed I’d live with Michael in a cabin in the woods until the end of time. Now that part woke up and panicked. I’ll have to go home without Michael.

“Come here.” I held out my hand.

His smile was brilliant. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed by my side. I circled his waist with my right arm, tugging him closer. He bent over me and brushed a soft kiss on my cheek, one more on my temple, then laid his head next to mine and sighed.

“You need to get well, so I can touch you again. I miss you so much.” Then I remembered his text message, the one I’d ignored and had gotten away with ignoring, because I’d been shot and bleeding all over the gravel road when he’d sent it.

I love you, Vincent.

I closed my eyes.

It would never work. I’d known from the beginning. Relationships based on extreme experiences never lasted, did they? We had all the odds against us—our age difference, our background, our habits and interests. We had nothing in common except for one remote cabin by a lake, and a memory tainted by blood.

He could go back to his life now—a life with no place for me. Once he’d recovered from the shock and guilt of the past few days, he’d leave. I’d find him a new chief of security, someone really good. A woman, preferably. I could make the calls tomorrow. Then I’d make myself scarce, lick my wounds, and tape my heart back together.

“I miss you too, Mikey,” I whispered.

I was going to miss him terribly.

20

It can’t be the end

Michael

On Friday, I came to Vincent’s hospital room with a bag.

“I got you clean clothes for tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” His smile was so fake I almost rolled my eyes. We were still pretending nothing was the matter, though, so I didn’t roll my eyes, but smiled back, just as fake.

We had an untold agreement between us that as long as Vincent was in the hospital, we weren’t talking about our relationship. He couldn’t hide the hesitation, the wariness in his eyes every time we spoke about him coming home. If he thought he’d be able to push me away, he’d grossly underestimated me.

Today was the day. I braced myself for impact and spoke, loud and clear. “I have a room ready for you, Vincent. It’s in my house here in New Haven.”

He sighed. The gloom surrounding him scraped on my nerves. It took him a while, but after a minute, he opened his mouth and said the stupidest, most predictable thing ever.

“We need to talk, Mikey.”

Blood rushed into my face. Although I’d expected something like this, I was instantly irate. I guessed a tiny part of me had hoped he’d change his mind. Well, he didn’t. Obstinate old man. “Oh no, we don’t!” I exclaimed. “You won’t we-need-to-talk me. You’re coming home with me, and you’ll let me take care of you. I’m not discussing this.”

“Mikey…”

Nope. Just no. “I love you, Vincent. And I’m not letting you push me away.”

He blinked, took a deep breath, and winced as his chest lifted. “It was just cabin fever, Michael.”

“You don’t get to decide for me what I feel!” I shouted. “You can boss me around in bed, throw slurs at me and tan my hide, but you don’t get to decide over my life. I know what I want.”

Okay, it probably wasn’t nice of me to yell at a man who was lying in a hospital bed after he’d gotten shot, saving my life. But fucking hell, he was stubborn!

“You’ll get bored within a month—”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up. If you have nothing sensible to say, hold your tongue. You fucking love me, you asshole. You think I don’t see that?”

“Michael…”

“Don’t you dare