Page 66 of Carry On

CHAPTER 47

LINCOLN

Icouldn’tsleep.Mymindbounced all over the place as I lay there in the silence, listening to Nash breathing. I counted each soft and steady breath, using it to ground me to the best of my ability. I needed something to keep me from spiraling.

Suicide attempts.

He was a frequent flyer in multiple hospitals for suicide attempts.

I struggled to wrap my head around that singular sentence. How many times did someone have to attempt suicide to be considered a frequent flyer?

How had he…

And why?

When was the last time?

Was it recent?

A while ago?

Was he suicidal right now?

Every question led to another.

And another.

And one more.

I squeezed him tighter and curled around him, burying my face into the curve of his neck. Inhaling deeply, I let the scent of him consume me as I clung to him.

I knew just how dangerous it was to get close to him, but for the life of me, I didn’t care. It wasn’t about me and him or any kind of arrangement we’d made.

It was about just how broken he was… how ready he was to let the world go… and the fact that he needed someone in his corner. People didn’t need a relationship or insurance or any of that bullshit to be worthy of having support and help.

Nash needed help, but the kind of help he needed… I wasn’t sure I could give him. No amount of insurance could fix this. Could this be fixed?

Was there even anything I could do to help him?

Would being in his corner be enough?

CHAPTER 48

NASH

Whythefuckdothey need to know all this shit?” I demanded. I sat in the waiting room of Lincoln’s doctor with an intake form in hand. The packet was expansive—way more than it needed to be. At least in my opinion.

“Because they need to know your medical history to help you,” Lincoln whispered. He sat next to me, his ankle propped up on his knee as he read some gay romance book behind what he called a discreet book sleeve. He said he knew the writer, but I wasn’t so sure about it. That didn’t stop me from reading over his shoulder because the fuck fest happening in his book was far more interesting than the packet I had to fill out.

“Me being homeless has nothing to do with my fucking medical history,” I snapped under my breath. Why did they need to know where I’d lived over the last five years? I could guarantee my rotating spots next to dumpsters and on park benches weren’t acceptable responses.

“Considering the rates of infection, illness, and more among the homeless, I’d say yes, it does matter when determining your health,” he replied ever so casually.

“Fuck you,” I muttered.

Just a little inkling of what he thinks of you,the voicecommented.

“You’re left-handed,” Lincoln said instead of catering to my grumpy mood.