Sloth (Sinful Secrets 1)

“I love you too.”

I wish I didn’t. I wish more that she didn’t. But who the fuck can change these things?

I JUST GOT THE NEWS THAT Cleo’s angel marrow is engrafting. I kiss her head and pull her against me, even though she’s sleeping. After the orgasm I gave her this morning, she was zonked. When she wakes up an hour later, I’ve got her chicken pizza waiting on the table.

She hangs another sparrow as she eats the pizza.

I watch from the love seat by the window. “What’s that one say?”

“You might think it’s cheesy.”

“Try me,” I tell her.

“Okay, it’s by this author named Louise Erdrich. Honestly, I don’t know her, but I saw this one on Tumblr, and I love it. Ready?” She holds up the unfolded paper. “It says, ‘You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on Earth. You are here to risk your heart.’”

I blink as heat fills my chest and throat. “Is that what you think?” I ask softly.

“Of course.” She laughs, and rubs her hand over my beanie.

I’m tired as fuck today, like every day lately, but I’ve got discipline left over from my football days. I drag myself over to the stationary bike... and ride until my chest and throat ache. Cleo tries distracting me by reading dumb news from a gossip web site.

When I’m done, she helps me down and wipes my face with a cool towel. I fucking love this girl so hard.

I tell her that.

She reaches up to touch my bald head, which for some reason, she’s decided that she loves. We watch a Game of Thrones episode while I struggle with my 30-pound dumbbells. I try not to feel like a loser when I don’t finish the workout. Too tired.

I sleep so much the next few days.

One afternoon, after a nap that lasted all morning, I wake up with a temporary tattoo—a blue butterfly on the inside of my wrist—and Cleo blowing bubbles, cackling as she waves the bubble wand above me. “Are you high enough to appreciate them?”

I laugh. “Are you?”

I’ve been taking tincture every day. Willard knows and doesn’t care. He says whatever works. And it does work. I’m weak regardless, but at least this way, I’ve been able to avoid the opiate painkillers. Either way, I won’t remember most of this when months pass by, but at least with the marijuana tincture, I’ll be able to enjoy it.

Later, as we lie in bed watching HGTV, my mind cycles back around to that though. I realize why it stood out.

…when months pass by.

I stroke her arm and tentatively offer her a tiny glimmer of the hope I’m feeling right now. “When we get out of here,” I whisper to her hair, “I’ll take you all over New York.”

It’s the first comment he’s made about us leaving here. I take it as a good sign, and I’m glad I do. We have a great night, wrapped up in each other’s arms, sharing the silly ghost stories that scared us most when we were little kids. It’s perfect time—and so damn short.

The next day, Kellan gets the mouth sores I’ve heard so much about. His mouth and stomach hurt so much he’s shaking in my arms as he tries not to move his mouth. Within a few hours, Willard brings the pain pump back.

But I know what to do for him this time. I know what comforts him. And I know how to wait.

I read: Gone Girl, a few more things from the prolific J.S. Cooper, and a book called Night Owl by M. Pierce. I touch myself under the covers, rubbing the sole of my foot over Kellan’s leg, as if that will make him more involved.

A whole week passes in this state: Kellan sleeping, giving me dazed, creepy looks, and leaning on me like a California redwood as he lurches to the restroom.

I get good at origami sparrows. After the aching quiet of his first few days asleep, I accept losing him to the Dilaudid again. Because I really think I’m going to get him back.

FOR EIGHT DAYS, KELLAN SLEEPS. On the ninth day, his mouth and throat seem better, so Dr. Willard starts to wean the pain pump.

The following few days amaze me. Kellan’s blood counts started going up while he was on his Dilaudid vacation, but until Dr. Willard cut the dose, I didn’t get a chance to see him doing better.

After a week spent mostly in bed, I thought he’d be too weak to even move—and he is weak. We walk down the hall the first night he’s awake again, his arm intertwined with mine, and have to stop a lot of times for him to catch his breath.