Both Sides Now

by Barbara Ferrer

  “Of course, with you able to walk so well and all.” All he did was stare blankly, sarcasm clearly lost in the haze of drugs and illness, making me shift my hold to his waist. “Where’s your car?”

  “Couple rows back. Black Explorer with team plates.”

  “Okay, wait here.” I popped the locks on the Volvo, which was in a handicapped space right by the entrance to the garage, and opened the passenger door. “Anything in particular you want out of your car?”

  Silence. He was already leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed, lashes damp and spiky against his cheeks, making him look like a little boy. Shaking my head, I headed off to find his car where I bypassed the hockey sticks—tempting though they were—in favor of the duffel I finally discovered buried under the pads and skates and other assorted hockey jock paraphernalia.

  He didn’t open his eyes once during the short drive to the hotel. Not even when I slammed on the brakes, trying to avoid becoming one with the typically horrible Miami Beach driver who thought because he was in a Ferrari he could ignore all known driving laws. But when I pulled into a parking space at the hotel and turned off the engine, his eyes slowly opened and he sighed—this unbelievably relieved sound that was as heartbreaking as the look he’d sent me over his shoulder back at the hospital.

  “Carlos, Señor Azarias is going to need a second key.”

  You have to love a professional concierge. Not even so much as a lift of his eyebrow at the unexpected request as we checked in. Just an exquisitely polite and immediate, “Room service, señora?”

  “Carlos, that would so rock my world, you have no idea.”

  “If I may take the liberty—”

  “Be my guest,” I replied. “Have it sent to Señor Azarias’s room, please.”

  “Charge it there, too,” came a sleepy mumble from beside me.

  “For God’s sake, Nick, shut up. We’ll figure that out later.”

  “Consider it taken care of, señora.”

  “Gracias, Carlos.”

  I got Nick up to his room and collapsed on the bed before returning downstairs to get our luggage. And again, props to Carlos for being the best of a rare breed, because he’d been kind enough to put us in rooms directly across the hall from each other. Stopping in mine only long enough to drop my suitcase and backpack on the bed, I returned to Nick’s room with his duffel, just as room service showed.

  I surveyed the cart: soup, a simple egg and cheese torta, and in the small bag the server handed me, a couple pints of Häagen-Dazs, one chocolate, one vanilla.

  Good concierge. After tipping the server and shoving the ice cream in the freezer compartment of the mini fridge, I turned to Nick, lying in the same position I’d left him. Hadn’t even bothered to kick his shoes off. It almost seemed a shame to wake him.

  “Nick…dinner’s here.” He jerked slightly at my touch and turned away. I put my hand to his forehead. Still burning up. Digging into the crumpled paper bag from the hospital pharmacy that he’d tossed on the table, I found the cough medicine, antibiotics, and Marco’s scrawled instructions: Acetaminophen for fever, as needed.

  Well, it was needed—big time—and there wasn’t any in the bag. I wondered if that was something else he traveled with, like the ibuprofen, or was I going to have to go make a drugstore run? I stared at the duffel, debating. Given how much as I hated anyone poking around in my things, I had a healthy distaste for doing the same, but desperate times and all that jazz.

  Kneeling by the duffel, I unzipped it, my breath catching as the interior was revealed. You know, for some reason it had never left me—that image, clear and vivid, of the neatly packed suitcase from our first encounter. The jeans, the folded shirts, the toiletry kit with that fresh, unwrapped toothbrush. I remembered Nick, sinking into the chair, completely pole-axed, saying that Katharine had packed for him—she always packed for him—and seeing his dawning understanding of just how radically his life had changed.

  Slowly, I pulled out the clothes, wrinkled from being crammed into the bag, automatically smoothing them out and folding them into a neat pile. Totally random selection—a tuxedo shirt, a couple pairs of sweatpants, a vibrant, green silk kerchief, half wrapped in torn, wrinkled tissue. No underwear, no toiletries, just a near-empty bottle of L’Occitane shower gel down at the bottom of the bag. Chewing the pad of my thumb, I studied the pile, then glanced back over my shoulder at him, still asleep, but curled up and shivering.

  Rising, I pulled the half of the bedspread he wasn’t lying on over him and quietly left the room. Luckily, there was a Walgreen’s a block away, so I was able to go, get what I needed, and make it back inside of a half hour. The torta and soup were cold by then, but that’s why God invented microwaves.

  It took some effort to wake him—so much so I worried he was closer to unconscious than asleep. But just about the point I was starting to consider calling Marco again, he finally struggled to a sitting position, bitching and moaning the entire time.

  Good sign.

  “Haven’t slept all week, now you’re waking me up.”

  “Poor, baby.” I dropped a pair of Tylenol into his palm.

  “You always this sympathetic?”

  I handed him an open bottle of water. “You're catching me on a good day.”

  Another one of those small, relieved sighs, followed by a quiet, “Good,” that had me busying myself fluffing pillows and tucking them behind his back—and to have a few seconds in which to compose myself. Wouldn't do to have him see me getting all emotional. Especially since I couldn't even explain why, exactly, I was so emotional.

  Even with the pillows piled behind him, he seemed to have trouble staying steady, so I sat beside him on the bed, letting him lean on me as we ate. Flipping through channels on the TV, I found a basketball game that provided mindless background noise, plus the added benefit of removing any immediate need to talk.

  Rising from the bed to place my dishes on the table, I asked, “Do you want some ice cream?”

  He shivered. “No, not right now.”

  Automatically, I leaned down and pressed my lips to his forehead. His skin was still warm, but nowhere near as painfully hot as it’d been. And clearly, that cough medicine was magic, happy stuff on par with Nora’s brownies, because he hadn’t had anything more than a couple light hacks since we’d left the hospital.

  “That’s how my mom checks for fever, too.”

  Startled, I pulled back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think twice.” Then I laughed, realizing—“Must be a Cuban mom thing, since I picked it up from Nora.”

  “Must be.” He smiled and put his empty plate and bowl in my outstretched hand. Now, admittedly, he was a big boy and fever-checking methods aside, I wasn’t his mother. At the same time, however, I’d sort of made him my responsibility.

  “Nick, I hope you don’t mind, I unpacked your clothes.”

  “I smell bad?”

  My jaw dropped at the blunt question. “No.”

  Yes, a little. But that wasn’t what I was worried about. A little body odor never killed anyone, and if he only knew what I’d survived throughout a childhood of hot, sweaty summers with back-to-nature types. “But you’ve been sweating out that fever, and, frankly, you’ll probably feel a lot better if you freshen up some—change clothes.”

  “God—if only it was that easy.” He laughed, but it was this harsh sound that drew another cough from deep in his chest and had me handing him his bottle of water.

  As he drank, I studied his face—his eyes, in particular. Funny, I wouldn’t have ever thought of such dark eyes as being easy to read—Nora’s sure weren’t—but Nick’s were complete windows. Something bad had gone down, and even though a few hours ago I’d been ready to bludgeon the story from him, now I found myself willing to let it go. The details—they just weren’t necessary.

  We looked at each other, for how long, I don’t know. It was as if time became liquid and elastic, a suspended moment between us where the little things—t
he air conditioner cycling on, the ring of a phone a few rooms away, the faint rattle of his breathing—became the only way by which to mark time. And where the very real, very familiar pain living in his eyes eclipsed all else, leaving us trapped in this hell where the pain had become our entire world.

  I was so tired of it.

  He shook his head, snapping us both out of it, the pain receding, although vestiges of it remained. Like always. “Right—shower.”

  “Really?” Okay, yeah, he needed to freshen up, but I’d been thinking simpler—sponge bath territory.

  “I won’t make it a long one, but it’s been a few days. Sink and washcloth just isn't gonna do it.”

  “All right.” I handed him a Walgreen’s bag. “Here.”

  Peering inside, he began pulling things out and carefully lining them up on the mattress. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Deodorant. Razor. Shaving cream. A pack of T-shirts. He looked up, and again the expression in those dark eyes was obvious and readable and left me closing my eyes for a brief moment.

  “Thanks.”

  “I, um, had no clue on your brands, so I guessed. Guessed on the size, too,” I said, nodding at the package of boxers that was the last thing he’d pulled from the bag and had resting on his lap.

  “No, Libby.” He shook his head, his gaze never leaving mine. “Just…thank you.”

  It was damn hard to find my voice, but I finally managed, “We have a deal, remember?” Managed a smile, too, waving him toward the bathroom. “Go on, take your shower. I’m betting the brief energy burst from dinner isn’t going to last long, and when it fades, you’re going to crash hard. I’d prefer it not be anywhere you could crack your skull.”

  From somewhere, even though I know it couldn’t have been easy for him, he found a smile too. “I’ve got a hard head.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Returning the toiletries and briefs to the bag, he rose from the bed, paused by the pile of folded clothes long enough to select a pair of sweatpants, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged less than fifteen minutes later, I saw that I’d been right. He looked like he felt better—and like he was ready to fall over. Good thing I’d already turned the bed down for him. Sliding in between the sheets with a quiet sigh, he caught my wrist in his hand and pulled me down to sit on the bed beside him.

  “Stay?” His voice was quiet, his gaze steady on mine.

  I bit my lip, my free hand hovering over the one he had on my wrist. Not something I'd planned on—I was just across the hall, after all. Had planned to set my alarm so I could make sure he’d get his meds in the middle of the night—

  “Stay, please, Libby,” he said again, his voice dropping even further. “I…” His lids lowered, hiding his eyes. “I’m so fucking tired of being alone.”

  Slowly, I moved my hand to his damp, shaggy hair and began smoothing the waves and cowlicks down, hoping to soothe him to sleep. On one of those slow passes, however, my finger caught on a cowlick, bringing my ministrations to a halt. With my palm resting on his cheek, my gaze found his. He was still awake. Still waiting. Still wanting.

  So much.

  As I sighed, the hand holding my wrist relaxed, allowing his arm to stretch across my waist as I slid down still on top of the covers. My head on the pillow beside his, I pressed my lips against his forehead.

  “Sleep, Nick.”

  I couldn’t, though. I just lay there, drifting occasionally, but mostly just staring into the dark, stroking his hair and neck as he slept, his head on my shoulder, his arm a comforting weight across my waist. After I got him his middle-of-the-night meds, I tried to leave—my brain rationalizing it as he’d sleep more comfortably in the bed by himself, I needed to get some rest, blah, blah, blah…. But then he latched onto my arm again, more asleep than not, and mumbled, “Please?” in the voice I was beginning to realize I couldn’t ignore.

  But after I gave him his early morning dose, it was time for me to go. And Nick knew it, too, staring at the watery bars of light filtering past the edges of the drapes before looking back at me with a tired smile. He knew I had to go—to get back to Ethan.

  Who’d had a peaceful night, thank God. The morning, however, wasn’t quite so calm with him throwing up, although not as violently as usual, which let him joke about it, at least through the first couple rounds. Small favors, because I was exhausted, and I wasn’t sure how well I could’ve dealt if Ethan had had a seriously bad day. He even made it through his second treatment about as well as he had the day before, asking for ice cream to offset the bitter residue from the meds. More small favors, since I could just go down to the cafeteria for that.

  However, it also made me think of Nick. We’d never eaten our ice cream last night. Had he eaten any today? Had he eaten anything at all today? But I didn’t want to call the hotel in case he was sleeping and, well, because my day—that belonged to Ethan. Had to belong to Ethan. I didn’t have enough in me to worry about Nick, too. But I did.

  And it left me more than a little distracted and irritable, something that didn’t escape Ethan’s notice.

  “What’s up, gorgeous?”

  “Huh?” I jerked my head up, finding Ethan staring at me.

  “I’ve never known you to just stare at ice cream—even hospital cafeteria ice cream.” He nodded at my container where I was, yep, staring and stirring around my rapidly melting cookies and cream.

  “It’s the latest in exercise and weight loss—stir instead of eat.” I tried to shrug it off as I tossed the plastic cup in the trash.

  “Libby…”

  Yeah, well, so I sucked at faking the man out. “Don’t worry, querido, I’m just not hungry for it, that’s all.”

  He set his empty cup aside and held his hand out. I took it in mine, and it was so familiar and so good, I tightened my grasp, hanging on for dear life.

  “Sweetheart, I’m doing okay. Why don’t you go on back to the hotel and get some rest?”

  “No.” I shook my head and held on harder, pressing my lips to the back of his hand. Lying there, my forehead pressed against his side, I could feel his other hand, the one with the poison flowing into it, come over to rest on my head, stroking gently.

  “Libby, I want you to go.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “You’re obviously exhausted—you’ve been out of it all day.” His voice was gentle, soothing, and so damn reasonable I wanted to scream. “I’d hate myself if you got sick.”

  “I never get sick.”

  “No, you don’t. Which would really up the guilt if you did get sick because you’re running yourself ragged on my account, and you know how that would piss me off. I much prefer gluttony and sloth with respect to my sins.”

  Oh, damn him and his rational arguments—and twisted sense of humor. “Ethan, you're doing so well—I just want to stay.”

  “You’re whining, Libby. You don’t whine except when you’re exhausted. There’s no guarantee I’m going to continue to feel okay, and if I do get to feeling worse…”

  He wasn’t going to want me around anyway.

  “All right, fine, I give.” Sighing, I placed a final kiss on his hand and lifted my head. After collecting all my assorted crap and making sure he really, truly was okay, that he really, truly wanted me to go, and letting the nurses know I was leaving, I leaned in to give him a goodbye kiss.

  “All this time and you still don’t get it, gorgeous. You’re always with me,” he whispered against my ear. “It’s what gets me through this miserable shit.”

  I smiled and touched my fingers to his lips. “I love you.”

  “Ditto, gorgeous.”

  Back at the hotel, I paused outside Nick’s door for several moments, holding the key card and debating. In the end, I turned away and toward my own room. If I hadn’t heard from him by dinnertime, I’d check. But dinnertime came and went and I did nothing. After all, maybe it was dinnertime for me, but as exhausted as he’d been? His sleep schedule was probably complete
ly screwed. So I called the hospital instead, checking on Ethan, my heart sinking as Corrine told me that not long after I’d left he’d gone downhill in a hurry—the vomiting and diarrhea and anxiety all kicking in with a vengeance. It was still going on, and, no, he didn’t want me coming down there—absolutely not. He must have known—that sixth sense that came with coping with illness over such a long period of time. It was why he’d been so insistent I leave.

  Hanging up the phone, I sat on the bed clutching a pillow to my chest and rocking back and forth, swiping tears from my cheeks. I reached for the phone again—but no. Calling Nick now would simply be selfish on my part. Nothing more than me being needy—even if it was under the guise of checking on him.

  I decided—if I didn’t hear from him by eight. But eight passed with me trying to work on my column and picking at the salad I’d ordered from room service. If he really needed me, he’d call, right? There was no reason for me to bother him. I’d left him my cell number, and he knew I was across the hall. He knew he could call me if he needed anything.

  So, I’d check at nine thirty, then. And as I stared out the windows at the lights of the Miami skyline across the bay, I could see the bright blue numbers from the digital clock reflecting back at me, ticking past nine thirty…nine forty-five…

  It was just past ten when it came. Along with the absolute certainty that the reason I hadn’t done anything was because I’d somehow known it would come.

  And I’d love to say that knock was completely unexpected. That it was unwelcome.

  But my God, I’d be lying.

  Nick

  “Why are you awake?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Mmm.” She stretched and resettled herself, her back warm against my chest. “I don’t know why I’m awake. But I know I slept great.”

  Her voice was soft, ever-so-slightly raspy. I really hoped to hell she wasn’t getting what I had. In the faint glow the bathroom light provided, I watched as her arm reached out from beneath the covers and grabbed a bottle of water from the nightstand. Uncapping it, she took a drink and then held it over her shoulder, offering.