You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Thirteen

Zayn:

Days came and went, and I didn’t see Harry, though I felt his presence in the house like a ghost haunting its huge rooms and corridors. A whiff of cologne. The echo of the piano drifting on the air.

I concentrated on my job, taking care of Desmond Styles, who I’d come to think of as a mighty oak felled before its time and reduced to lying in bed all day. The MS had
weakened him, and given its progressive nature, most days if he wanted to take more than three steps, he needed a
wheelchair.

“Here you are, my dear,” Ramona said one morning, handing me a plate of eggs Benedict and sliced avocado.

“This looks amazing,” I said.

“Has to be,” she said with a knowing smile.
“Have to take care of Mr. Styles’s favorite nurse.”

I snorted. “Hardly.”

Her eyebrows raised. “You haven’t noticed? The ones he doesn’t like get the night shift. He wants you on all day shifts because that’s when he’s awake. He likes your
company.”

“He tolerates me, you mean,” I said. “I don’t think he likes anyone. Not that I blame him. His entire world has been upheaved.”

“True. But I’ve been here for thirty years. You don’t think I can read the weather around here? The mood in the house?” She patted my cheek. “He likes you. He won’t ever tell you that, but that doesn’t make it untrue.”

“If you say so.”

Desmond’s bedchamber was dim when I stepped in at the start of an afternoon shift.

The curtains were drawn when they shouldn’t have been. I shot a questioning look at Dale, whom I was relieving. Dale shook his head then inclined it at Desmond who was watching a cable news channel on the giant flat-screen across from the bed.

They were all scared of him, but I’d worked in an ER. Being snapped at by Desmond Styles was child’s play.

“Mr. Styles,” I said as Dale slipped out of the room. “You know what Dr. Webb said. You need sunlight. Vitamin D. It’s just as important as the meds.”

“Fuck off."

Yep. He loves me the most. Obviously.

I concealed a smile as I reached for the curtains. “Sorry, sir, but doctor’s orders.”

“I’m not stupid, you know,” he said without stammering, though his hands resting on his stomach trembled. “I’m weak as a kitten. A ray of sunshine isn’t going to make me better, so you can shut those damn things.”

“You need the sun.” I finished drawing the curtains.

“Besides, it’s Seattle. Take what you can get.”

I turned around, and Desmond Styles’s wrath was all over his face, lit by the sunshine that filled the room. When I
didn’t back down from his cold stare, he gave up and returned to the news.

I went about my business, prepping his Orvale shot, taking his blood pressure and temperature. When I went to lift him up to settle him against the pillows better, he
motioned at the TV screen.

“Look at this,” he said. “Some faggot actor claiming he was the victim of a hate crime.”

I froze. My stomach became a ball of ice, and I nearly dropped Desmond’s head against the headboard.

“Hate crime?” He snorted. “Bullshit. He had a drink thrown at him. That’s not a crime. I’d wager it’s a hoax, anyway. He faked the whole thing to get attention. No one attacks homosexuals in broad daylight. Not anymore.”