True Art

Chapter Eighteen

MATTHEW'S POV

“Are you okay?” Remi hovered near the hospital doorway and I nodded, not really knowing whether I was.

“I’m okay.”

“What happened?”

“I was taking some pictures, and I climbed up on a rock and then slipped. I didn’t notice it was at the edge of a steep valley. I just sort of went.”

“I was worried when you didn’t come back. I tried to call, and when you didn’t answer... I assumed the worst.”

There was a tightness to Remi’s voice that unnerved me. He looked pale and tense, his jaw clenched tight, and I could make out the muscle twitching in his neck. Was he angry?

“My phone flew out of my hand as I fell, but I’m fine. The mountain rescue got there fast, and the paramedics said I was lucky not to have hit my head. It’s just my knee that got messed up. Oh, and I got a bit of a fright.”

Remi nodded, still standing just inside the doorway, and I wanted to call him over, ask him to hug me, but I sensed it was better not to. Something was off. I just wasn’t sure what.

“You could have died. You can’t mess around on mountains. This could have been so much worse, Matthew.”

“I'm okay though, aren’t I?” I argued, but his expression didn’t change.

“Yes, you are lucky you only injured your leg. If you’d hit your head or fallen at some other point…” He exhaled and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

“I have to have surgery on my knee. They need to put a pin in it. But then I get to go home.”

He nodded and ran his fingers through his hair. “It’s going to be a good few weeks before you’ll be back on your feet. Someone is going to have to look after you.”

I wanted it to be him. I wanted him to bring me home, but I knew by his face that he wasn’t thinking that. I could tell he was pulling away, and there was nothing I could do about it other than let it happen.

“How long are you supposed to stay in the hospital?”

“I don’t know. The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow, and then the nurse said I’d be kept in a couple of days before being let home.”

“Well, make sure you do what the doctor tells you. You need to let that knee heal fully, otherwise you could have long-term issues with it. And you’re too young to have to worry about that.” Remi’s tone was sharper than necessary, and I knew he was closing himself off to me.

“Remi, can we talk?”

“It's late. I better head back and let you get some rest.”

“Please.” My voice was shaky, and I wanted to reach out from the bed. Maybe he’d walk over to me, or maybe he’d just walk away. Because that’s what he was doing.

“I’m sorry, Matthew. This isn’t really going to work out, is it?”

I fought back the tears, holding myself together when my heart was breaking. “Why not?”

“You’re too young for me.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay, then I’m too old for you.”

“We could make it work. If we tried.”

Remi smiled, pity or sadness or something just as low darkening his eyes. “It wouldn’t work. We’re at very different stages in our lives. You have your whole life ahead of you—assuming you stop falling off mountains—and I come with too much baggage. It wouldn’t be fair on either of us.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I’m not. You’re too young to understand why it’s better this way.” He looked away from me, and I swallowed down a sob.

“Then explain it to me. Why can’t it work? What has age got to do with it?”

“You understand art, right? Well, let me explain it like this. All great painting is about trying to stop time. Fighting against mortality. Rembrandt knew how to capture that in his paintings; a visceral attack of paint. You don't see the painting, you feel it. That’s what you are to me, Matthew. You’re my selfish attempt to stop time. To try and hide from my own weakness or fear of getting older. My instinct is to want you, but my head knows better. I’m so sorry. But it’s better this way.”

“I don't want it to end,” I called, but Remi was already gone, the doorway barren and dark, leaving me alone once again with nothing more than my pain.