Absentmindedly, I drag a finger over the chipped glass of the face of the watch. There’s another reason I’m wearing the watch that has nothing to do with Ian. It represents survival. It’s a good thing the Rolex is watertight. It went down a waterfall and came out ticking without having lost a second, sporting nothing but that chip in its veneer. That’s why I didn’t have the chip fixed or the scratches on the glass polished. Some chips and cracks aren’t meant to be repaired.
He pushes a button on the side of the bed that lifts the head until I’m in a sitting position and rearranges the pillows to help me get comfortable. After spreading a paper napkin over my lap, he peels off the lid of the plastic container and sets it on my lap with the fork. It’s a pasta salad.
“The carbs will be good for you,” he says, lowering himself into the chair again.
I fork a spiral and bring it to my lips. The dressing is tangy. It goes well with the peas, maize, and cubes of cheese mixed into the salad.
He lets me eat in silence. When I’m finished, he takes the empty dish and fork and leaves them on the table.
“How about a warm drink?” he asks.
“That sounds good.”
A cup of tea will be welcome, and I’m pathetically grateful to my executioner turned savior for the foresight of having a flask and teabag ready. I watch his back as he pours the water over the teabag into a mug. His hair is tied into a messy man bun. It’s still the same length, maybe a couple of centimeters longer. In terms of physique, his shoulders are as broad and his arms as strong as I remember. He’s keeping in shape.
He offers me the mug with the handle turned toward me and drops two pills onto my other palm. “Careful, the tea is hot.”
“How long am I supposed to stay here?”
He sits back down in the chair. “The IV needs to stay in until tomorrow. The doctor is still giving you morphine. He’ll be in later to check on you. How’s the pain?”
“Actually, I don’t have any.” Compared to the first time I got shot, this is heaven.
He blows out a small sigh. The seriousness surrounding him bleeds into every corner of the room. It hangs over him and rolls in around us like bad weather when he leans his elbows on the bed and says, “Now we talk.”
Talk. Ha. “It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”
He catches my gaze and holds it. “We once trusted each other. That trust didn’t come overnight. We worked hard for it, both of us. I don’t think I’ve ever worked harder for anything. I’m not asking you to trust me again. I sure as hell don’t trust you after what happened.”
I trace the porcelain pattern embossed on the mug, not looking forward to this conversation but unable to look away from his eyes. Unable to avoid it. “But?”
“For whatever the trust we once had was worth, the least we can do is listen.” When I say nothing, he purses his lips and intertwines his fingers. “Fine. I’ll start.”
The maelstrom of emotions that comes with remembering that day on the river twists my insides with so much ferocity it physically hurts. “I can’t do this.”
His mouth sets in a hard line. “You owe me answers. Fuck. Maybe you think I owe you answers. Things need to be said. We are going to talk about this.”
“Like we talked on the river?” I bite out.
The corners of his eyes crease as they tighten. The amber specs shimmer in the brown. “Exactly.”
Amidst the anger, something vulnerable flashes in those murky pools. He wipes it away quickly, but it goes deeper than a fleeting emotion. It inhabits his eyes. It’s not simply passing through. It moved in, and now it lives underneath a new heaviness, a permanent sorrow, that reflects from their depths.
“Ian.”
He takes my hand, but I pull free, placing my palm over my belly where a child can no longer grow.
“Why did you pretend to love me?” I ask, willing myself to be immune against the familiar pain. I can’t bear for him to see that private part of me. “Why did you let me believe it was more than sex?”
He looks at me like I spat in his face. “Pretending isn’t a game I play.”
“If that’s true, why did you order Ruben to shoot me without giving me a chance to explain?”
The color drains from his tanned face. If he looked like I’ve spat on him earlier, he now looks like a man being roasted over coals. “What the fuck, Cas?”
“That’s why he was standing on the jetty with a rifle. You didn’t row me to the middle of the river to talk where spy bugs couldn’t record our conversation. You rowed me to my grave.”