Page 86 of Look Again

29

JOEY

Dexter opens the door and I motion him inside from the couch. Sometimes it crosses my mind to think what impression the look of my place must have on him, when his is so elegant and decorated and classy.

Today I’m simply glad he’s here.

Maybe it’s because I’m stretched out on the couch with a blanket covering every inch of me from the nose down. Maybe because I have the blinds pulled. Maybe because I’m dangerously unstable. For whatever the reason, Dexter kneels on the floor next to the couch and whispers, “Hi.”

I slip my hand up and out of the blanket to wave my fingers at him. He catches them gently in his hand.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Not very, just this minute,” I whisper.

“Is it because I broke your nose?” he asks, and I feel as I look into his eyes like I can see right into his heart.

“You didn’t break my nose,” I tell him, and I wiggle my fingers free to prove it, tapping it. Gently.

He takes my hand again and laces his fingers with mine.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he whispers, his free hand tracing the curve of my cheek.

“I’m sorry I ruined your sweater,” I say back.

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Good,” I tell him. “Because I didn’t ruin it. I’m just never giving it back.”

His laugh comes out as a whisper, and it gives me the courage to say what I need to say.

But I have to close my eyes to say the words. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

So I tell him. Optic neuritis. Visual obstructions. Medications. Possibilities of MS. Possibilities of lots of things. Therapies. Improvements. Treatments. Fear. Sadness. A little hope.

At some point, he moves to sit on the couch, so I’m curled around him. He still holds my fingers, his thumb running circles along the base of my hand.

He asks the right questions and never makes me feel like I’m weak or broken. “How can I help you today?” he says finally.

I open my mouth to say, “I don’t need anything,” and then I realize that I do. I need rest. I need support. And he’s here, offering it to me.

“Can you take my class during your conference tomorrow?”

He answers so fast it’s like he doesn’t even need to consider. “Of course.”

I squeeze his fingers. “I know you have a lot going on,” I say, trying to give him an out.

“I can afford to watch your class take pictures for an hour,” he says, and on another day, it might sound sarcastic. Today, it feels like a gift of an hour—an hour of rest I really need.

He reaches for his phone. “I’ll ask Hank if he’ll take your ten o’clock.”

As if I haven’t learned anything, I almost say no. But then, yes. Please. “That would be amazing.”

He shows me Hank’s immediate answer: ‘All week? No problem.’

My vision goes swimmy from tears.