“You don’t have to say it’s okay,” he says. “It hurts, doesn’t it?” In so many ways, I almost admit. I stare at him, moonlight tracing his face, his eyes on my hand, which he’s…massaging. He’s massaging my hand. Maybe he had more whiskey while I was in the shower. “It’s not too bad,” I tell him. Air huffs from his nose. “Coming from you, that means it’s excruciating.” “Sometimes,” I admit. “But not now. It’s more just…how it affects everything. That’s part of what’s fucking with me. I’m on a new medication that works, but what if—no, when—it stops working and I have to hope another med will be
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