All surfaces were spotless. The only thing out of place was a half-filled water glass on the counter. Esme’s. Warmth pricked over his cold skin in a sick wave. He didn’t realize he was reaching for the glass until he saw his hand approaching, and he stopped himself before making contact. Curling his fingers into a fist, he backed away. He didn’t want to put her glass in the dishwasher like he always did. He wanted it . . . right there.
This suffocating air. He hurried through the house, opening all the windows and doors, but it didn’t help. His nausea got so bad he spent a few minutes hunched over the toilet, but he didn’t throw up. Bed, he should just go to bed, but not when he was sweaty like this.
Somehow he got through a shower without wounding himself in the process and dressed in an inside-out sweater (to keep the seams off his skin) and workout shorts—he wanted layers, lots of layers, and was looking forward to his heavy blankets. But when it was time to get in bed, his limbs locked, and he couldn’t do it.
It was official now. Esme was never going to sleep
in this bed again.
No more naked Esme welcoming him close, inside her body, crying his name as she clung to him. No more Esme weight draped over him like a sloth in a tree, warm and soft and perfect. No more Esme smiles at night, in the morning, and every time he looked at her.
He yanked the comforter off the bed and carried it to the living room, where he wrapped the blanket around himself and collapsed onto the couch. Fuck, they’d had sex on this couch. On the green shag carpet, too. Everywhere. And there was another one of her half-filled cups on the coffee table. He couldn’t escape her—he didn’t even know if he wanted to—and his head felt like it was going to explode.
He covered his face with the blanket. And breathed in her Esme scent. At first, he expected his nausea to worsen, but his muscles relaxed instead. Heaven, sweet heaven. If he shut his eyes, he could almost imagine she was here, wrapping her arms around him, and sleep dragged him to a place where he didn’t hurt anymore.
Thank fuck for the blanket. He was never washing it again.
* * *
• • •
Khai woke at odd intervals throughout the night and the next day: 12:34 A.M., 3:45 A.M., 6:07 A.M., 11:22 A.M., and then 2:09 P.M. That last time bothered him with its lack of logic, and he was scowling at his phone when Quan walked through the unlocked front door in jeans and an old black T-shirt.
Quan took in the shoes scattered on the ground, the opened windows, and Khai’s blanket-clad form on the couch and asked, “What’s going on? Did you burn a pizza in the oven or something? Why are you venting the place out?”
Khai sat up, but the blood rushed from his head from the sudden movement, and he slumped against the back of the couch. “The air felt funny.”
“You okay?”
He rubbed at his aching temples. “Shouldn’t you be in New York pitching for your B-round financing?”
Quan toed his shoes off and crossed the room to press a hand against Khai’s forehead. “I did the important stuff yesterday and rescheduled the rest. Was worried about you with the breakup and Andy’s death anniversary coming up.”
Khai pushed his brother’s hand away. “It’s just that flu that’s going around. Go back to New York. I’m fine.”
Shit, death anniversary. A cold sweat broke out over him, making his skin tingle as his heartbeat went erratic. He’d purposely blocked it from his mind because he hated those kinds of things, and this was the big one, the ten-year anniversary. There was going to be a ceremony, more monk chanting, and geysers of tears. His head throbbed on the verge of explosion.
“There isn’t a flu going around. It’s summertime.” Quan frowned and stuck his hand back on Khai’s forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”
“It’s in the pre-fever stages, then.” Khai mumbled the words because sound hurt now.
Quan sat down on the coffee table and searched his face like an astrologist reading the stars. When he shifted his position to get more comfortable, the water glass got in his way. He reached for it, but Khai stopped him.
“Don’t.”
Quan blinked and asked, “Why not?”
“I like it there.”
Quan stared at the water glass before fixing his eyes on Khai with a look of dawning understanding. “Holy shit, it’s hers, isn’t it? Do you know how cute that is?” Rubbing at his jaw, he added, “Also maybe a little emotionally unstable. You’re not being creepy, are you? Like stalking with binoculars and calling her at night to make sure she’s sleeping alone?”
“What? No.” But who the hell would she be sleeping with? If Quan meant another man, that was disturbing enough to warrant lengthy contemplation.
“Those weren’t suggestions,” Quan added. “Don’t do that.”
“I’m not being creepy,” Khai said in exasperation.
Quan nodded, and after a stilted moment, he dug his phone from his pocket and held it up like he was snapping a picture.