Excerpt: Intimacy

Zach lay in a narrow hospital bed, wires snaking from both sleeves to machines.

"Hey." I pulled a plastic chair up to the bed, sat down and took his hand, careful to avoid the IV line.

He looked gaunt, but he'd always looked gaunt as a boy. It was only later he had filled out, become a burly man with broad shoulders and a solid waist. But the man was gone, and only the boy I'd loved remained.

"How're you feeling?"

He lifted his other arm and pulled down the oxygen mask so it lay on his chin. "Like shit." Pain flickered across his face as his arm flopped back onto the bed.

"You need more pain meds?" I half-rose from my chair. "Let me get the nurse."

He shook his head and squeezed my hand with more strength than I would have expected. "Nah," he said, grimacing again. "Puts me to sleep. I'd rather talk."

I stroked the back of his hand with my thumb, tried to push down the thick veins. "So talk."

He grinned, a passing flash of light that died immediately. "Nah. You talk."

"What shall I talk about?"

He didn't respond, just closed his eyes in a long, slow blink.

"My flight? Nothing really to talk about. It was uneventful. No tornadoes this time." I blathered on. "Let's see. Kids are fine. John said the baby took his first step this week. Lizzie just got her first real job -- vet's assistant, just like she always wanted to be. Blake graduates next month."

He spoke, one word, but it was low and guttural.

I stood and leaned over him. "What?"

"Stewart?" he whispered.

I sat down again, too quickly and nearly fell. Out the window, I saw a passenger plane on a steep climb, fighting gravity and a heavy load. "He's good," I said. "Busy at work, like always."

"How'd he ... take ... ?" His words died away.

"The news that I was coming here?" I finished the sentence for him, and he nodded. "He was fine with it. A little annoyed maybe. It's a bad time -- I was supposed to hostess the CEO's wife around town this week. But it's never a good time, and he understood."

Zach looked away from me, out the window, his eyes tracking another plane. I had driven a rental car straight to the hospital, grateful it lay so close. His eyelids drooped closed, and his hand relaxed in mine. His breath was labored, so without removing his hand, I pulled the oxygen mask back over his face.

As I sat back down, he turned to look at me. "Lance tell you ... ?" He took a ragged breath and tried again. "Three months."

Grief leaped into my throat, though I tried to swallow it down. I nodded without looking at him while I blinked back tears. When I could, I looked up, but he'd turned back to the window.

"Let me ... " I stopped, though he looked at me, a question in his eyes. I took a deep breath for courage and blurted it out. "Let me care for you."

I'd shocked him. He froze, his hand stiff and cold in mine, his eyes wide. Then he shook his head twice, emphatic jerks to one side, then the other.

"Please," I whispered. "Please. We've got lots of room."

"No." It was the clearest thing he'd said. "You ... write!"

Tears spilled over, and I didn't bother to wipe them away. "It's only three months," I said. "I can finish the book later."

Something -- pain, disapproval, his damn stubbornness -- tightened in his face. Again, he shook his head and turned away, his mouth set.

I leaned over him, placed my hand against his cheek and stroked until he looked at me again. I ran my palm along his chin, across his shoulder and down his arm. "Please," I said again. "Allow me this intimacy at least. We missed all the others."

He raised his hand, shaking, and laid his palm against my wet cheek. I turned and pressed my lips into his palm.

"Please."

He opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. His lips were dry and cracked. I picked up a drink that sat on the bedside table and put the straw to his lips. He sucked and swallowed several times, and when he spoke again, his voice was stronger. "Stewart?"

"He's fine with it," I said, and his eyebrows rose. "I asked him."

He started to respond, but I laid a finger across his lips.

"It's the best solution," I said. "I know Laurie would do it, but she's got the twins. And with Stan in Iraq, there isn't anybody else ..." My voice trailed away at the pain in his eyes. I should never have followed that line of thought, should never have reminded him. He grieved enough for the loss of his wife two years before. I lifted his hand in mine and pressed his fist against my mouth. "Please, Zach. If things had gone differently, it would have been my right. Please. Let it be my privilege."

He closed his eyes in defeat, and a single tear trickled through the crow's feet into his hair, still thick if mostly gray.

A surge of excitement, joy, ran through me. Finally, I would have this man in my home, have the right to touch him, touch all of him. Not quite what I'd imagined at 20, but close enough.

"Look at it this way," I said. "In the end, I'll have one hell of a memoir."