Page 70 of Meet Me In The Dark

“You can’t even open your eye.”

“Because you’re hovering,” she snaps, as more tears fall.

I peel off a glove with my teeth and drop it.

Pressing my thumb to her eye, I lift her upper lid gently. “Look up.”

“No.”

I think that word is reflex for her.

“Celeste,” I grind out, losing patience.

She breathes and finally looks up.

The noise of the site falls away in my head until it’s just the clock of my own pulse and the hitch of hers. I lean in and blow a careful stream across the inner corner. The grit shifts, and she swears under her breath.

I do it again until I see the speck release and track to the outer edge. I swipe it away with the side of my knuckle.

“Better?” I ask.

She blinks. It works this time, but tears still cling to her lashes.

I should probably let go.

I don’t.

There’s a strand of hair stuck to her mouth. I hook it free and tuck it behind her ear. My fingers stay because they can, because there’s still a line we haven’t crossed, and I like standing on it.

She looks up at me from under her lashes, that right eye rimmed red now, her breath evening out. There’s the barest tremor in her jaw under my hand.

“Say it,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“That I’m fine. Say ‘you’re fine’ so you can feel like you’re in charge, and then we can get back to work.”

“You’re fine.” I don’t move.

Her mouth curves. “Happy?”

“Not even close.”

My phone buzzes, and I curse it under my breath.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull the phone out and answer without looking away. “Yes?”

“Mr. Blackwood?” A woman’s voice comes through the speaker. “This is St. Mary’s Hospital.”

The ground tilts a degree, and that old cold spreads from my sternum out.

“Go on,” I say.

“Your mother is requiring additional support services while she’s with us,” the woman says. “Some agitation at night, refusing meals. She’s also a wandering risk. We understand you are funding her care here, so we need your permission before we go ahead.”

I don’t know why, but the smell of old beer hitsthe back of my throat—memory disguised as scent. I’m four, standing on torn linoleum in socks too thin, watching her smoke by the window and tell me there’s bread, maybe, or ketchup if I’m hungry. The fridge hums empty. The corridor outside stinks of piss. Someone’s laughing behind a door. It’s three steps to the sink, a climb onto the counter, and a stretch all the way back for the stale crackers I hide for when she forgets.

“Mr. Blackwood?” the woman says. “Are you still there?”