Inseparable (3 page)

but it smells so good and right now my stomach just cares about being fed.

Joe’s mom, bundled in a heavy winter coat and scarf, pops into the kitchen and gives her son a

kiss. “I have to leave now, but your sister Maria will be stopping by later. I left the albums in the

other room.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

“You’ll be coming for Christmas?”

“I don’t know. We’ll see how Adam is.”

“But you have to come.”

I don’t want Joe to miss out on Christmas with his family because of me. “It’s okay, I’ll be fine

on my own,” I tell them around a mouthful of luscious pancakes.

Joe’s mom looks shocked. “You always spend Christmas with us Adam.”

“Oh. That’s right, because I have no family.”

“Because you are part of
our
family.” She kisses me on the cheek and gives the top of my head a

gentle stroke before departing. Then it’s just Joe and me again, alone.

Joe wraps his hands around a steaming mug that reads “Accountants do it with double entries.”

The freshly brewed coffee smells amazing and makes my mouth water. He catches my look of longing

and shakes his head. “Sorry, no caffeine for you.”

Denied, I focus on eating. “Should I be at work or something?”

“We just started vacation. You’ve still got almost two weeks off. I called work though, and let

them know about the accident. I wasn’t sure… what was going to happen,” he finishes weakly. There

is a moment of uncomfortable silence, and I know we’re both thinking about the way things could

have turned out.

“Dr. Singh said it would probably take at least six weeks for my ribs to heal. I guess I’ll have to

call… someone. Who do I call, Joe?” The panic is creeping back in.

Joe covers my hand with his and squeezes reassuringly. “Hey, let’s wait until after Christmas,

okay? We’ll see how you’re feeling then and figure out what we need to do.”

I nod, trying to ignore the anxiety that keeps threatening to overwhelm me. “What do I do?” I ask.

“For work I mean.” I hope it’s not something that requires specialized skills; if my memory never

comes back, will I still be able to do my job?

“You’re a Project Manager for Summit Systems. It’s a telecommunications firm,” he adds at my

blank look. “We both started there out of school.”

We
again. That word keeps popping up. “What do you do? No, wait—something in finance I’m

guessing.”

“How did you—?”

“Your mug kind of gave it away. I never would have pegged you for a number cruncher.”

“Oh, what would you have guessed?”

“Pirate?”

Joe smiles, his full lips pulling back into a gorgeous grin. My stomach does a little summersault.

“So,” I say, only it comes out a little hoarse and I have to clear my throat. “We live together and

we work together. We take our holidays at the same time. You make me special pancakes….”

“Yeah?”

I look him directly in the eye, and a zing goes down my spine at the contact. His long, black

eyelashes are still wet and spiky. “Doesn’t that sound like a relationship to you?”

Joe laughs, but it sounds a little uncomfortable to me. He jumps up from the table and carries my

empty plate to the sink. “We’re just friends. Best friends.”

I’m not convinced. Maybe it’s the way he won’t look at me when he says it. Maybe I’m just

imagining the hint of regret in his voice. I may not be in the best position to judge right now, but it

sure as hell feels as if there’s something more than “bromance” between us. That itch in my brain is

back and getting stronger.

Itch or not, there are more important things to deal with now that my stomach is full and the pain

relievers are hitting my system. “I think I need to take a shower,” I say, struggling to push my chair

away from the table.

Joe rushes to my side and helps me up. “Can you manage?”

“Why, are you offering to wash my back? I think you just want to get me naked.”

“Your skinny ass? No way.”

“You should be so lucky,” I retort over my shoulder as I hobble to the bathroom. Our banter

comes naturally and it feels so right. It reassures me that maybe I haven’t changed even if I can’t

remember.

Our bathroom is small and outdated with a blue toilet and matching bathtub, which I hadn’t

noticed earlier. As the light over the mirror pings and flickers to life, I catch the first real good look

at myself.
Holy shit
, no wonder everyone is freaking out. Even at my best I can tell I’m no standout—

my face is too long and narrow, angular, with a prominent thin nose and wide mouth—but right now I

look like I’ve just escaped from a mixed martial arts cage match. Under the fluorescent lights my skin

is sallow, which makes the dark bruises around my eyes stand out even more. I have to lean closer to

see that my eyes are a washed out blue behind the puffy lids.

Everything about me is washed out, from my pasty complexion to my short, dark-blond hair, a

large patch of which is missing above my right ear where they’d had to stitch me up. Fortunately it’s

hardly noticeable, except for the dried blood. Compared to a man as vital as Joe, I am a pale

imitation. Someone like him would never be interested in someone like me. It’s crazy to even think it.

Turning my back on the stranger in the mirror, I start to undress and moan in agony at the sudden

throbbing of my ribs. My muscles have stiffened, and fuck, I can’t even raise my arms to get the shirt

over my head. With a sigh of defeat, I sit down on the toilet seat, ready to cry. Joe must have been

standing outside the bathroom waiting for the water to run because he taps on the door. “Adam,

everything okay?”

I can’t answer past the lump of self-pity lodged in my throat. Next thing I know, Joe is barging

into the tiny bathroom and towering over me. “I can’t lift my arms,” I whimper, on the verge of

blubbering again.

“Maybe a bath is better. You look like you’re about to fall over. You sure you don’t want to wait

until later?”

“No, I stink. And there’s blood in my hair.” The tears are flowing freely down my cheeks now.

I’m unable to stop them. Everything hurts so much.

“Don’t worry,” Joe says, handing me a wad of toilet paper to wipe my face. “We’ll get you

cleaned up.” Joe turns on the faucet and adjusts the temperature. As the bathtub fills, he gently helps

ease the sweatshirt over my shoulders and head. “Ah, Adam,” he chokes when he sees the massive

purple and yellow bruise that covers my chest from where the Expedition’s front grill had hit me.

“I think if you look close enough you can make out the Ford logo right about here,” I point out.

“Shit, Adam. Don’t you dare joke about that.” Now it’s Joe who looks like he’s about to cry and

that is just no good. I put my arms around him and, suddenly, I don’t know who is comforting whom.

I try not to think about the fact that I am half-naked against my best friend, or that his arms feel so

good—strong and capable. He’s careful not to hold me too tight even though his fingers clutch at my

waist and his big body is shaking a little. He even smells good—like chocolate—and I want to just

inhale him. Joe will make everything better.

Too soon he eases away and pulls himself together with visible effort. “You’re right, you do

stink,” he jokes. Remembering how much it hurts to laugh, I catch myself just in time.

I have to hang on to Joe for support as he strips off my sweatpants and underwear, leaving me

totally naked and exposed, skinny ass and all. If I didn’t hurt so much, I’m sure I would be

embarrassed, but Joe’s a trooper; given his sexual orientation, he probably sees dicks all the time, so

what’s one more? For a brief moment, I’m horribly self-conscious of my pale thin body, my mind

stupidly wondering how I measure up against Joe’s unknown lovers, but there is nothing remotely

sexual about Joe helping me into the bathtub and the thought disappears quickly. He’s all business as

he silently proceeds to wash my back, my neck, under my arms. He tries to be gentle, but it’s an

impossible task since there’s not a part of me that doesn’t ache.

“Are you always like this?” I ask. “Hovering? Taking care of me?”

He smiles sheepishly and, this close, I can see the tiny laugh lines around his eyes. “I can’t help

it. That’s what happens when you grow up with five sisters.”

The shower head is one of those detachable ones, so I’m able to stay seated as he tenderly

washes my hair, doing his best to stay clear of the stitches. There’s something incredibly relaxing

about having your hair washed, especially by a good-looking man with strong fingers. My eyes start

to drift closed.

“You’re smiling,” he says next to my ear. “What are you thinking?”

“Hmm, what a great boyfriend you would be.” The fingers in my hair pause, and I mentally curse

my loose tongue. The pain pills are making me drowsy, and I can’t control what comes out of my

mouth.

“You think you’d get this treatment if you were my boyfriend? Uh unh—you’d be the one

washing
my
back and making me breakfast.”

“That good, are you?”

His chuckle warms me. By the time he pulls the plug and softly towels me off, the painkillers

have worked their magic, and I am so relaxed and drained that I’m half leaning on Joe just to keep

standing. “Hey there, stay awake a bit longer,” he teases. “You’re too heavy for me to carry.”

I smile at the image of Joe lifting me in his arms and carrying me to bed. “That would be nice,” I

mumble and feel him jerk in surprise. “Oops, I guess I’m not supposed to say that.”

Joe cups my head in his big hands and stares into my eyes. He’s awfully close but I can’t focus

on his face. “That must be some pretty good shit. How many did you take?”

“Mmm, two.” I grin at him. “You have sad eyes. Why are you so sad?”

Joe makes a little choking sound. “Jesus, Adam. Tell me how I’m supposed to react when my

best friend nearly dies.” With an angry twist he secures the towel around my waist.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He sighs, pulling me in for a quick hug that is not nearly long enough. “It’s not your fault.”

Somehow we make it back to my room, where Joe rifles through my drawers, and I stand there

shivering until he holds up a pair of green plaid flannel pajamas in victory. “Okay, now let’s get you

into bed.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Usually I’m trying to get clothes off, not on,” Joe snorts as he helps me step into the pajama

bottoms.

I pluck at the loose-fitting top he slides over my shoulders. It buttons up the front so I don’t have

to lift my arms. “I can’t believe I’m the kind of guy who actually has flannel pajamas.”

“Damn, you’re stoned.” Joe shakes his head as he steers me toward the bed. “I wish I was

recording this. It would be funny if.…”

“If?” I prompt.

“If you hadn’t nearly died.” The tears well in his eyes, and suddenly, I’m drowning in those dark

depths. He brushes them away angrily. “Fuck.”

“Why aren’t we together, Joe?” The question comes bubbling up from nowhere.

“We are together. Blood brothers, man.” Joe holds up his left palm to show a faint scar bisecting

the skin.

I look down at my own hands like I’ve never seen them before and find a matching one on my

right. “We did that?”

“And, shit, did we get in trouble. I thought your mom was going to kill me. She even made us get

tetanus shots. You cried like a baby.”

It makes me smile. I grab Joe’s hand as he tucks the comforter around me and press our palms

together. Big, solid Joe trembles at the contact. “Stay,” I order, my eyes already too heavy to keep

open.

I feel Joe settle next to me. His sigh blows across my ear. “Always,” I think I hear him say. I’m

still holding his hand as I fall asleep.

WHEN I wake for the second time that day, the pounding in my head is a little better. I only wish I

could say the same for my ribs, which hurt like hell. The pillow is damp under my cheek from where I

have drooled in my sleep.
Great
.
Nothing says sexy like a drooling invalid
. The thought makes me

smile until I stop to consider who I want to be sexy for. God, I’m so confused. I lay in bed for a

while, staring at my hand, tracing the evidence of our childhood pact as if doing so could bring back

my memories. But it doesn’t. It’s just boring, and I miss Joe’s company. I know he can’t be far, but

without him I feel somehow incomplete. It’s that same sense of restlessness I experienced in the

hospital.

Gritting my teeth, I rise and stagger to the living room, where a giant flat-screen television is

tuned to a muted stock market channel, the color-coded ticker tape scrolling across the bottom of the

screen. Beside the TV stands a lopsided wall unit jammed with DVDs, books, and a PS3. Joe is

sprawled on the couch, texting furiously on his phone. Behind him, through the sliding glass doors, the

sky is grey and heavy with clouds, and large white flakes have started to collect on our balcony.