4. Four

Four

A rt sags against the wall, as if it's taking all his energy not to collapse. He drags a hand down his face and looks at me. His dark brows draw into a frown, as if he's trying to piece together what's happening.

"You came back."

I look at him and shrug.

"You came back to me."

Have I though?

The last twelve hours have been filled with more revelations and twists than my sleep-deprived brain can focus on. I can't do this yet.

My eyes dart to the purple cut and bruised knuckles of his right hand. "You need to get your hand seen to."

He slowly flexes his fingers, as if testing them. He winces, clearly in discomfort. "It's not broken. It just hurts."

"Then you need a shower and some painkillers."

He drops his hand and lifts his eyes to mine. "They don't make painkillers strong enough to stop this pain."

He's not talking about his hand anymore. I roll my eyes.

I can't look at him. I'm not ready to have this conversation. I spring to my feet and busy myself with clearing the mugs from the table.

"Get in the shower. I'll make you a coffee and find some painkillers." I turn my back on him and start stacking the dirty mugs in the dishwasher.

"You're looking after me."

My head drops, and I keep my back to him as his hopeful words tug at my heartstrings. None of this makes any difference to the reason all this happened. He lied to me. I can't let what I've learnt about his past blur that issue.

"Get in the shower," I say firmly because I don't know what else to say.

The sound of bare feet retreating across the parquet tells me he's conceded defeat. I hear the distant sound of the shower running and search the kitchen drawers and cupboards, locating the paracetamol. I pour a glass of water and make a strong mug of coffee, and then I realise the sound of the shower has stopped, but Art hasn't reappeared.

I peer around the bedroom door. He's lying on the bed, a grey towel wrapped around his waist and his hands pressed against his face.

"I'm not used to feeling this rough. I can't do this," he groans.

By "this", I presume he's referring to dressing himself. His self-induced pity annoys me.

"Yes, you can," I snap, heading into the walk-in wardrobe.

I sift through the hangers on the various clothes rails and locate a white Ralph Lauren T-shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. Then, I pull a fresh pair of black boxers from one of the drawers. When I walk back into the bedroom, he's easing himself upright on the bed. The tough-love approach seems to have worked.

"Put your arms up," I demand, putting the pile of clothes on the bed.

He does as he was told, allowing me to slip the T-shirt on over his head. I feel the heavy weight of his stare as I pull it down over his chest, and I know he's willing me to look at him, but I don't. I can't be reeled in. There are things I need to say and questions I want answered, and I need to keep my focus.

He pushes himself up off the bed, slipping the towel from around his waist to reveal a semi-erection. He'll have to go this bit alone, I decide. I avert my eyes and push the boxers into his chest. He takes them from me, and I let him rest a hand on my shoulder to steady himself as he gingerly pulls on his underwear and then his sweatpants, hiding the silver streak of his scar. Another part of his past I know nothing about. I go to move away, but his fingers curl round my shoulder, and I make the mistake of lifting my eyes to his. His dishevelled, damp hair falls across his forehead, and tired brown eyes are searching mine for a clue as to how I feel.

I can't give him the answer he wants. Not yet. "We've a lot to discuss."

His jaw tightens as he releases his grip from my shoulder, and I seize the opportunity to retreat into the living area. I can't be this close to him. I can't risk wavering. I need to keep focussed.

He slowly makes his way into the room behind me and flops down on the sofa, the effects of his hangover visibly taking its toll. I place the paracetamol, glass of water, and mug of black coffee on the coffee table and settle down in the armchair opposite.

"You need to take them; they'll make you feel better," I say, nodding towards the painkillers.

"I doubt it." He picks up the painkillers and tosses them into his mouth. Then, he grabs the glass of water and takes a long gulp, knocking them back.

I ignore his self-pitying remark. "Get some sleep."

He folds his arms behind his head and gives me a long look. "Promise me you'll be here when I wake up."

I'll stay because I want answers, and it's obvious he's not yet ready to give me the explanation I deserve. "I promise."

He nods as if content with my reply and closes his eyes.