Intimate Geography Read online

  I fumble for something to say. Yeah, I was actually pretty sure that’s how things were going to go down. Jack’s got impossibly high standards for his employees. You fuck up and you’re gone. Not unlike most of the other important relationships in my life. I refused to give myself over entirely to Hunter? He burned my life to the ground. I wouldn’t acquiesce to my parents’ demands to seek treatment for something that isn’t an illness? They disowned me. Legally, Jack wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, but he could make my life miserable. I’d rather have him get it over with than edge me out.

  “Yes?”

  “Jesus, India, what kind of heartless monster do you think I am?” There’s another brief pause. “Don’t answer that. To be honest, it’s nice to see you are, in fact, a flesh-and-blood human being and not some cyborg master race that’s going to crush us all.”

  I choke out a laugh and feel a bloom of affection for my boss. Jack’s not a bad guy.

  “You do what you need to do. Let me know how much work you want, and we’ll figure something out. You have busted your ass for me for three years, and that hasn’t gone unnoticed. You’re the best I’ve ever seen, and I’m not stupid enough to play the short game with you. We’re both in this for the long haul, right?”

  “Yes, Jack. Thank you.” Relief seeps through me. At least that part of my life hasn’t been shot to hell.

  “I have to tell you Patterson’s going to be pissed.”

  Shit. What does this have to do with Patterson? Is Jack going to make him pick up all my projects? He couldn’t possibly…

  “He owes me a hundred bucks. I told him you weren’t a dyke.”

  I crack up.

  “Jack, you’re horrible. I don’t know that you could be any more offensive if you tried.”

  “Is that a challenge?”

  “No.” I roll my eyes in delighted exasperation. “I take it back. I fully believe you have untapped reserves of odiousness. No need to prove it.”

  “Well, I hope your…friend is okay.” Seconds ago my mood had been lightened; now it drops, all levity gone. Jack’s tone has sobered as well. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I will, thanks. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  The next morning, Crispin is still in the ICU. Herds of doctors and nurses continue to pass by, not to mention the families who come and go, some tearful and some raucous, all of them fraying my nerves.

  Mary spends the night in a hotel near the hospital, the same one Matty’s staying in, but I stay in the chair next to Crispin’s bed. Matty brings us food the next morning and gets me some clothes, too. The jeans and long-sleeved tees are more casual than my usual fare, but good for keeping vigil in uncomfortable, hospital-issue chairs. I can’t sleep, and I pick at my food. The stress of this is taking its toll, and I’m a fucking wreck.

  I talk to Jack and he sends me enough work to keep me occupied, but we only have a single outlet in our corner of the ICU to keep two laptops and two cell phones charged. A logic puzzle like this should be right up my alley, but in my current state, it’s almost enough to drive me to tears. At least Mary and I get along. I find her presence comforting. She excuses herself to call Mal several times during the day, and I wonder what they talk about. It must be nice to be able to talk to him, and I’m green with envy because it reminds me I can’t talk to Crispin.

  The day after that, Crispin’s pronounced stable enough to move out of the ICU. He’s installed in a sunny room meant to have two patients, but we’ve been assured we’ll have it all to ourselves. The arrangement is better, although I’m still a mess. At least Matty can come and go and I can be on the phone and not have to leave. I don’t unless I’m on a call for work and Mary is here. I don’t know that she’d approve of how I conduct business, so I do my conference calls in a little-used waiting room several doors down. A good thing, too, because everyone is screwing up my shit. I yell and swear. A lot.

  I work as much here as I did at home. Partially because I don’t want to lose my job, but also because I need something to distract me from how godawful Crispin looks. Every day he looks worse, even though his doctors assure us he’s doing better. They keep saying he’ll wake up soon. Until I can see his blue-grey eyes and feel his warm hand squeeze mine back, it’s hard to believe he’s in there somewhere.

  When everyone’s gone for the night, I read to him. I read to him until I fall asleep in the chair by his side and start again the second I wake. Sometimes I roam between consciousness and dreams that pick up where my narration has left off. It’s exhausting and disorienting, but there’s nothing else I can do. If he’s aware of anything, I don’t want him to feel alone. I don’t want him to be afraid, and I hope my voice is a comfort.

  Matty tells me to go to sleep, but I refuse. He goes so far as to rat me out to Rey.

  When my phone rings, I expect a lecture and I’m not disappointed.

  “India, I’m a very busy and important man. Don’t force me to get on a plane to make you take a goddamn nap. You know I’d do it, too. Now do as Matthew tells you and go the fuck to sleep. I promise you’ll be better for Cris if you do.”

  He’s mocking himself. I mean, he is both busy and important, although I wouldn’t expect hardly anyone to believe how essential he is. But people need him. I have been—I am—one of those people. It’s easier now, but there have been times I literally would’ve died without him. There’s always a new me. Someone coming to him in search of help, solace. He tells them they’re not alone, there’s nothing wrong with them. They just needed to find him. Us.

  I don’t want to sleep. I feel like I’ll be abandoning Crispin, and I’ve already been absent more than he deserves. But Rey’s serious about getting on a plane and I won’t make him ditch his responsibilities to put me to bed. Not after all he’s done for me. And he’s right. He’s always right. Goddammit, Rey, you’re annoying sometimes. After extracting a promise from Matty that he’ll stay and read to Crispin until Mary comes back in the morning, I drag myself to the bed that hasn’t been slept in yet and collapse.

  *

  I’m dimly aware of voices.

  “What is she doing here?”

  “I called her, and she came. She never leaves. This is the first time I’ve seen her sleep.”

  “How did you even—”

  “Her number and photos were the only things on your desk, Cris. They don’t do her justice, by the way.”

  “You have no idea what you’ve done.” His voice is heavy, desolate, and I picture him shaking his head. The idea of him doing anything makes a smile attempt to form on my lips.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s pissed as hell at me. I don’t know why she’s here. The last time we talked—”

  That wakes me up more. Crispin’s awake. He’s talking. I want to talk to him, so I do my best to shake off the rest of my sleep. It’s harder than you’d think. I’m so tired I feel like I’m underwater.

  “I don’t think she’s angry with you. She got on a plane as soon as I called, and I’m not kidding when I say she never leaves. The only time she’s left is when I’ve been here and she was on the phone. She’s a feisty one, isn’t she?”

  “You have no idea.” Instead of sounding amused, like he usually does when confronted with my spiritedness, his voice is bleak. Oh, Crispin. I want to hold him, offer him the comfort of my body.

  It’s not easy, but my feet find the floor and I manage not to stumble as I push back the curtain. There he is. Awake. My heart seizes. I knew he was conscious, I heard him talking, but seeing him makes it real.

  He looks horrible and wonderful all at once, and I can’t find my voice. All I can do is propel myself toward him.

  I sink down on the side of his bed. Mindful of his injuries, I put my arm around him and rest my cheek against his. Tears escape through my lashes.

  “India?”

  He sounds hopelessly confused and unsure. Guilt sink
s my stomach. This man I love has so much doubt about my feelings for him that he thought I wouldn’t come when he was hurt, when he could have died. What the hell kind of person does that to someone they love?

  “I’m here, Crispin. I’m here.”

  “But you—”

  “I’m here. I’m not going to leave. Everything’s going to be okay.” I want to silence his worry, leave no doubts. I want to give him what he’s held out on a silver platter to me, what I’ve refused to accept and withheld from him. I want to offer him something more precious than my body. For the first time in years, I say the words to someone other than Rey. “I love you, Crispin.”

  I cling to him, holding my breath, waiting for his answer, hoping he won’t send me away.

  “Okay.”

  His answer is tinged with surprise, and I almost burst out laughing but realize the jarring movement would hurt him. I bite my lip and swallow hard. “I tell you I love you and all you say is ‘okay?’”

  “Yeah,” he says, but I can tell from the tone of his voice that he’s smiling.

  I hug him the barest bit tighter and shut my eyes. “Okay.”

  I’ve never been so happy. Okay. I could sit like this forever, but I remember myself and pull away, wiping my face.

  “Mary, I’m sorry to interrupt. I have a few calls I need to make. I’ll give you some time. Please excuse me.”

  What I really need is a damn shower and a comb through my hair. And to brush my teeth. And to mainline some coffee. Jesus, I must look a mess. No wonder Crispin said, “Okay.” Who wants to be loved by an unwashed harridan suffering from caffeine withdrawal?

  “No, India, please. I need to call Mal. Why don’t you keep Cris company until I get back?”

  I’m sure Crispin’s father will want to speak with him, too, but it’s a nice excuse. “Okay.”

  Mary and I smile at each other with relief before she ducks out the door. He’s back. We’re back.

  *

  “On a first-name basis with my parents, are you? I thought you didn’t do parents, pet.”

  “You didn’t give me much of a choice, jackass.”

  “From I love you to jackass in under five minutes? Must be a new record.”

  “Not my personal best.”

  He smiles, and I’m convinced everything will be right with the world. But his smile fades, and he looks wary.

  “What’re you doing here, India?”

  “Your mom called me. She said you were hurt. Badly. I got on a plane.”

  “So all I had to do to get you here of your own free will was nearly become fish food?”

  He’s half-kidding. I want to tell him No, of course not. You should’ve just called. But I can’t because he did and I didn’t come. My face balls up with the effort of telling the uncomfortable truth. “Could you forgive me if I said yes?”

  “I think so. Did it have to be a head injury though? Would you have come for something else?”

  The corner of my mouth twitches. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, if this is what I have to do whenever you run scared, there’s not going to be much of my pretty face for you to rush back to. Not to mention my scintillating intellect you seem to find so charming will be diminished with each blow to the…to the…”

  “That is not funny. You could’ve had brain damage.”

  “I know. But seriously, would a broken limb or appendicitis have worked as well?”

  I clench my jaw. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “Yes.”

  I take a deep breath and a hard exhale. “If you’d been able to call me yourself, I wouldn’t have taken the call. And if you’d somehow managed to get me on the phone anyway, I would’ve thought you were lying and wouldn’t have come.”

  “You wound me, pet.” He clutches his chest, gentle mocking in his tone. He knew what I was going to say and it must hurt him, but I’ve been honest and that pleases him.

  “I don’t have to. You’re in sorry shape as is.” My words are dismissive because if I think too hard about how badly he’s hurt, how much worse it could’ve been… My stomach lurches.

  “I’ll be fine.” His voice is gruff as he squeezes my thigh, and his promise and his touch soothe me. I graze my fingers over his arm and rest my hand over his. He relaxes under my attention, more likely from fatigue than ease. He must be so worn out. I’d tell him to sleep, but he’d be stubborn about it. I take an indirect approach instead, stroking his face in the places it won’t be painful and nestling into his neck. I croon sweet things to him, things I’ve never dared say before.

  I must do a better job than I thought because not only have I gentled Crispin to sleep, but myself as well. After a while, I become aware in some far corner of my brain of people talking. I try to fire enough neurons to understand them but not wake up. It feels so right to be this close to Crispin, his chest rising and falling softly, reassuringly, against my shoulder. I never want to move.

  “Oh, let them be, Nurse Ratched. She’s not hurting him.”

  Another good book. I wonder if Crispin’s read it? I’ll have to add it to the list I’ve been keeping, one I might be brave enough to put to paper now. There’s no response, and I wonder if they’ve gone until Nurse Ratched says, “They aren’t really engaged, are they?”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Beverly?”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  Crispin has to stay in the hospital for a little longer, but I start making arrangements for him to go home. Since he’s woken up, my anxiety has tanked. I catch up on sleep and enjoy the meals we share, sometimes with Mary and Matty, sometimes just the two of us. Conversation is easy, comfortable, and there’s no awkwardness in the affection we show each other. It’s rare for us to not keep some form of contact—except when I’m in the waiting room, on the phone, berating someone or other.

  When Mary’s there, I slip my hand under Crispin’s and don’t shy away if he runs his fingers through my hair. When she’s not, I nestle beside him in the narrow hospital bed, savoring the warmth of his skin and the beat of his heart.

  I try to excuse myself when he makes calls of his own—to Mal, Holo and Lani, other friends, work contacts. It feels too intimate, like something I would demand space for, but he tells me to stay. I’m privy to a Crispin who’s very much mine, but a different man as well. I like him, too. He’s relaxed with his friends, taking their joshing with good humor and telling them he’ll be back soon, though not on his board.

  His gaze falls often on the St. Michael’s medal I tied around his wrist. They’d cut it from his neck when they brought him in and put it in a bag of his belongings by his bedside. He looked incomplete without it. As he said, it’s done a yeoman’s job—he’s still here—but I worry this one’s luck has run out.

  After a few more days, I get Crispin home and settled. A private-duty nurse named Vera will be arriving soon, and she’ll be here 24/7 for a week or so. Crispin raises strenuous objections about how unnecessary this is, but in the face of the dynamic duo of Mary and me, he gives in. It’s cute he thought he had a choice.

  *

  The first evening we’re back, I make a stir-fry while Crispin rests on the couch. He’d never admit it, but the trip was grueling and, despite a few hours of sleep earlier, he’s worn out. He’s got another recommendation from the India Burke Book of the Month Club, The Ministry of Special Cases, splayed over his lap. His exhaustion is manifesting itself as a lack of concentration; he’s taken it up a few times, only to put it back down.

  “Where is Vera staying?”

  “In my room.” I don’t bother to look up from the onions I’m chopping. I’m hoping he’s so tired he won’t bother himself with the logistics, but no such luck.

  “Where are you going to sleep?”

  “In the studio.”

  “India, you’re not going to sleep in there.”

 
“Why not? Would you rather Vera sleep in there?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. But that bed was not made with sleeping in mind.”

  “I’m aware of that, Mr. Ardmore.” I turn to scrape the onions into the wok and start on the peppers, my nose in the air. “I’ve had worse.”

  “That doesn’t make it okay.”

  “Well, I’d rather sleep in there than on the couch, so that’s how things are going to be. Don’t worry about it.”

  “You’re a bossy little thing, you know that?”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  There’s a pause from the peanut gallery, and I let out a breath. I continue chopping in peace, satisfied he’s not going to argue anymore, but he surprises me. “You could sleep in my room.”

  I almost lose a thumb along with a mushroom cap I’m slicing, but I pull back in time.

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I never sleep in your room.”

  “By that logic, you can’t sleep in the studio or on the couch either.”

  “Not the same, and you know it. Don’t be difficult.”

  “I’m not the one who’s being difficult.”

  “What do you want me to do, sleep on some mats at the foot of your bed?” I wave the knife around, the only external indication of how terrifying this conversation is. I get myself under control and lower my head to eviscerate another mushroom.

  “Of course not.” He’s taken offense at the suggestion, but it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it. If I’m in the right headspace, I can even enjoy it. But I know him and his tastes; it won’t appeal. “I want you to sleep in my bed.”

  I pause my chopping, not taking my eyes from the cutting board. “You know I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a restless sleeper and I’ll hurt you,” I prevaricate, decapitating yet another unfortunate fungus.

  “You forget I’ve watched you sleep, pet. You don’t move an inch. Next.”

  I tighten my jaw and close my eyes.

  “Crispin, please. I can’t. I’m not your girlfriend, I’m your submissive.”