Episode 7 — The First Step

Six weeks after the accident, Marcus stands.

His hands are white-knuckled on the parallel bars. His whole body is shaking, sweat running into his eyes. It's ugly and terrible, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I can't help it. I smile. A real one, the first in weeks.

"That was incredible," I say.

His head snaps toward me, and his face closes like a door.

"Don't."

I blink. "Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that." He wipes his face with the back of his hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for myself."

My jaw tightens. I don't say anything.

"Then stop congratulating me like I'm a child."

"I wasn't—"

"You were."

I close my mouth. I step back into my corner.

The therapist glances between us, uncomfortable. Marcus wheels himself out without a word, and the door swings shut behind him.

"He's pushing himself hard," the therapist says. "It's normal to be angry at this stage."

I nod. I don't say anything.

Three days later, I bring him lunch.

I'm balancing the tray badly, and I nearly walk straight into him at his desk. He's reaching for a book on the shelf above—not high, not far, but the chair won't roll close enough and his arm won't stretch far enough, and I can see his leg straining.

"Let me get that," I say, and my hand is already moving.

"Don't."

My hand stops mid-air.

"I can do it myself."

"I know. I just thought—"

"Freya." His voice is hard. "Put the tray down. Leave the book. Go."

His jaw is tight. His eyes are fixed on the shelf. His arm is trembling with the effort of holding himself up.

"You're right," I say. "I'm sorry."

He blinks.

I set the tray down and walk out. The door clicks shut behind me.

That night, I'm passing his bedroom on my way to bed when I hear him.

A grunt. A scrape of metal. A quiet, swallowed sound.

I stop. The door is half open. I can see him through the gap.

He's trying to get into bed. It's too high. He can't transfer alone, not yet, not without the board the nurses use—and the board is across the room, propped against the wardrobe where he told them to leave it because he didn't want it in his way.

He's been at it for ten minutes. I can tell by the sweat on his face, by the way his arms are shaking, by the overturned cushion on the floor.

He won't call for help. He won't call for me.

And then his arms give out.

He catches himself on the edge of the mattress—just barely—but his leg twists wrong, and he makes a sound I've never heard him make.

My hand is on the door before I can think.

I push it open.

He looks up. His face is wet—sweat, or maybe something else—and his eyes are wild.

"Don't," he says.

But his voice breaks on the word.

I don't stop. I cross the room. I kneel beside him and take his arm.

"Lean on me."

He doesn't move.

"Marcus. Lean on me."

His hand closes around my shoulder—hard, desperate—and he lets me take his weight.

I get him into the bed. It takes less than a minute.

I step back. He's lying there, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling.

"Are you all right?"

He doesn't answer.

"I'll get the nurse—"

"No."

I stop.

He turns his head. His eyes find mine.

"You saw that," he says.

"Yes."

"You saw me fail."

"You got into bed."

"Because you helped me."

"Yes."

He closes his eyes. His jaw tightens.

"I hate this," he says. "I hate needing you."

"I know," I say.

He opens his eyes.

"I love you," I say. The words come out before I can stop them. "I've loved you since I was seventeen. I watched you at every dinner, every party, every Christmas. I watched you look at Jade like she was the sun, and I never said a word."

He stares at me. His face goes pale.

"Freya—"

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel guilty. I'm telling you because—" My voice catches. I swallow. "Because you need to understand. I'm not here because of the contract. I'm here because I love you."

He doesn't speak.

The silence goes on so long I start to hear my own heartbeat.

Then he laughs.

It's short and sharp and ugly.

"You love me." He shakes his head against the pillow. "You—you love me."

"Yes."

He drags a hand down his face. He's breathing hard, like he just tried to stand again. "Do you know what you are, Freya?"

I don't answer.

"You're nothing." His voice is flat. "You're a shadow. A placeholder. Something that got left behind when the real thing walked out the door."

"Marcus—"

"I have loved your sister since I was a boy. I have loved her my whole life. And I will love her until the day I die." He stops. Swallows. Starts again, rougher. "Nothing you do will ever change that."

I can't get any air into my chest.

"You want to know what you are to me?" He pushes himself up on one elbow. His arm shakes and he almost goes down. "You're the woman who took her place. You're the body they put in her dress. You're the spare. The—the backup. The one nobody wanted."

"Please—"

"Do you know what I see when I look at you?" His voice cracks down the middle. He stops, drags in a breath, and when he speaks again, it's quieter. Worse. "Nothing. I see nothing. No matter how many pills you fetch, no matter how many meals you bring, no matter how many nights you spend crying in your room where you think I can't hear you—I see nothing."

My hands are shaking. I can taste salt.

"Your sister was everything," he says. "She was fire. She was life. She was the only woman I ever wanted. And you?" He stops. Looks at me. "You're nothing. You're—" He stops again, like the words are costing him something. "You're less than nothing. You're a ghost in my house that I can't get rid of."

"Get out," he says.

I don't move.

"I said get out." His voice comes out wrecked. "And Freya? Don't ever tell me you love me again. Because I've loved your sister my whole life, and I will never—" His breath catches. He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. "Never. Feel anything. For you."

I walk out of the room.

The door clicks shut behind me, and the sound is small and final.

My feet carry me down the corridor. The house is dark. My footsteps are too loud on the marble. My breath is coming in short, broken pieces. I don't remember opening my door.

I close it. The latch catches.

My hand stays on the handle. Then I turn the lock. Not because I'm afraid of him. Because I don't want anyone to see me like this.

The room is dark. I don't turn on the light.

I sit down on the edge of the bed. The mattress gives under me.

You're a ghost in my house.

You're less than nothing.

I will never feel anything for you.

I press my hand to my mouth. The sob comes anyway. Then another. My shoulders shake. My hands fist in the sheets. The sound that comes out of me doesn't even sound human.

And the worst part—the very worst part—is that I believe him.

I believe every word.