I wait for more words, but he doesn’t offer any. He lies on his back, drawing his knees up before shifting onto his side, tugging at his hair so hard it surely hurts.
“Jesus…” He breathes like a woman in labor. His wide shoulders jerk, as if he might weep, but he doesn’t. He just breathes, and rubs his shoulder.
“Come here.”
I’m in front of him in an instant, close enough that I can feel him trembling.
His dazed eyes peek open, lifting to mine. His hand kneads his shoulder. “Press it back…”
“What?”
He rolls the shoulder. “Push on it.” His voice is thick.
“Why?” I whisper. At that same moment, he rasps, “Please.”
I put my hand there on his shoulder. It feels warm and damp under my palm, the muscle hard and thick and twitching with his tremors. “What now?” I whisper.
He shifts onto his back, his left hand cupping my hand. “Push on it. Hard as you can.”
“I’m afraid of hurting you.”
“You won’t.” When I don’t reply, he grits, “Please.” His eyes are squinted with pain, his sweat-slick face contorted.
So…I do what he asks. I lean over him and hold the place between his throat and shoulder with my left hand, while I cup his shoulder and push down hard with my right.
“Harder,” he grunts.
I push harder, and he moans. The way his eyes and face flash open in alarm makes me let him go. “I hurt you!”
Something
glimmers in the corner of his eye as his face twists. His left hand clutches his shoulder, and guilt racks me.
“I’m so sorry!”
“Wanted it.” The words are almost slurred. “That’s why…I had you do it.”
“Why?”
“Because—” His eyes blink slowly. “I don’t…feel real.”
“What do you mean?”
He shakes his head, closing his eyes again. He rubs his forehead. When he looks up at me, his eyes are more unfocused than I’ve ever seen them. “Sorry…and thank you.”
“How do you feel now?” My heart is racing.
“Okay.” But his face is drawn in pain.
I lay my hand over his heart, feeling its fast thrum. Declan’s sweaty, shaking hand comes over mine—and then, as if he realizes he’s sweaty, he lifts it, cringing.
“Sorry for…” His lips are trembling ever so slightly. Behind his eyelids, I can see his eyes moving as if he’s dreaming.
I lean in closer, stroking his hair off his forehead.
“Finley?”
“Yes?”