Chapter 4

I pushed open the door to our apartment. The living room was completely dark.

The only light was coming from the gap beneath the bedroom door.

I slipped on my slippers and walked over. Ryan was slouched in his wheelchair, holding a book.

As soon as he saw me, he put the book down and spoke in that weak, feeble voice he always used, "Claire, why are you so late? I called you several times, but you didn't answer."

I pulled out my phone and glanced at it.

There were three missed calls.

No matter how late it was or how exhausted I felt, I always picked up as soon as Ryan called.

But tonight, I didn't.

"My phone was on silent. I didn't hear it," I said.

"Did you have dinner? I keep telling you not to skip meals." His lips were trembling, and his speech was slurred, like his tongue was so numb that he couldn't get the words out right.

A spinal injury wouldn't affect his speech, but he was putting on this whole performance, acting like his entire body was breaking down.

I had believed him for four years straight.

Now, when I watched him force his neck to twist and fake losing control of his face, my stomach twisted with disgust.

"Ryan, I'll heat up your milk," I said.

I went to the kitchen.

My hands were shaking as I poured the milk into the pot.

The rim of the pot knocked against the stove twice, and a little milk splashed onto the burner.

I stood at the stove, gripping the handle, biting down hard on my back teeth.

I couldn't let myself fall apart. Not now.

I brought the milk over to Ryan. He took it, took a sip, and sighed contentedly.

"The milk you heated always tastes the best, Claire," he said.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and watched him.

He drank it slowly, taking small sips, like he really was sick.

"Ryan," I said.

"Yeah?" he replied.

"I saw someone in the hallway on the second floor at the Grand Crest Restaurant today."

His hand froze for a moment as he held the cup. It was barely a heartbeat.

"Who was it?" he asked.

"He looked a lot like you," I said, locking eyes with him. "He wore a lack suit and moved fast."

He paused for a second, then smiled.

His smile seemed so genuine, almost like he was a little hurt.

"Claire, are you too tired? I won't ever be able to stand up again. How could I be out there walking around in a suit?" he said.

"See?" He patted the armrest of his wheelchair. "This chair's my legs now."

I didn't say anything.

He set the milk cup down and messed up my hair a bit. "Stop worrying. Once I'm a little better, you won't have to work so hard."

A little better? Better enough to stand up and toast Emily?

I bowed my head so he couldn't see my expression.

"Ryan, it's time for bed," I said.

I helped him move from his wheelchair to the bed.

I'd done this every single day for four years, so I knew exactly how to position his body and where to place my hands to support him.

He weighed 160 pounds, and I was barely 90 pounds now.

Every time I got him into bed, it felt like my back was about to snap.

I used to think it was all worth it.

Now I know he could've gotten into bed by himself and probably knocked out fifty squats before lying down.

I pulled the blanket over him.

"Goodnight, Ryan," I said.

"Claire," Ryan called.

"Yeah?"

He grabbed my wrist and noticed the scrape on my palm.

It was from picking up broken porcelain shards at the restaurant.

"How did this happen? Did you get hurt again?" he asked.

His brows furrowed, face full of concern and guilt. He was pretty good at acting.

"Just a work mishap, nothing serious," I said.

I pulled my hand back, turned off the light, and gently closed the door behind me.

As the door clicked shut, I heard a faint sigh from inside.

I wasn't sure if it was him or me.