Page 54 of Down in Flames

“Oh.” Brilliant conversation, but West was full of foreboding, like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and staring down at the drop.

Reaching awkwardly for the clothes someone had draped over a chair, he asked, “You get Abby off to school?”

“Celia’s watching her while she naps at home,” Michael replied. “She didn’t sleep a wink at your sister’s house.”

“The kids were probably up all night playing,” West said, but Michael shook his head.

“She was worried,” he said harshly.

West scrubbed at his face, full of guilt. “Shit. I’ll call her once I get out of here.”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Oh. Right.” West fumbled with the strings on the back of his gown, peeling it off his shoulders and tossing it in a ball toward an empty linen hamper. He missed.

Michael stared at the long, silvery scar on his chest, the one West had blamed on climbing a rusted metal shed when he was a kid. Then his gaze drifted over West’s shoulders and down his back, all the way to the bruises spreading beneath the elastic of his boxers. His mouth tightened.

“You’ve been lying to me,” he said harshly.

“I haven’t—” West began, but Michael’s expression stopped him cold. He hung his head and took a deep breath. The truth was, he’d been lying to Michael since the day they’d met, pretending to be something he wasn’t, and it had finally caught up to him. “I was trying to protect you,” he said.

Michael’s chuckle sounded different. Low and cynical. Dangerous.

“Try again,” he said, settling back against the jamb and crossing his boots at the ankle. All elaborate ease. Like he was ready for anything.

West’s stomach clenched. He didn't think he'd ever seen him look so grim, except perhaps in those months following Mary's death. But they hadn't been close back then, and he hadn't understood the massive amount of control it took for a caring man like Michael to keep his emotions in check. He did now, and it hurt to watch.

"Why don't you start with those scars on your chest?" Michael prompted. "The ones you said were from a climbing accident."

West glanced down at himself. He traced the center scar with one finger, following the thick line down his sternum. There were others, thin and old now, barely noticeable. It had been easy to convince everyone they were from getting caught on some rusted sheet metal. No one had questioned it. Why would they?

"Six surgeries," he admitted. It wasn't easy.

Michael blew out a long, slow breath and said in a hoarse voice, "I did some reading last night while you were asleep. They said it only takes three."

"I was one of the first successful patients on this side of the country," West said. He couldn't meet Michael's eyes, so he focused on a tacky ocean landscape on the wall just over his shoulder. "They were still perfecting the procedure, and I had some complications that meant they had to go back in a couple times."

"So that's why Aiden and Cal always said you were like a ghost back when you were in school. Cal barely even remembered you when he came back to town."

West's smile was slight. "Cal was always more wrapped up in Eli and his own problems, and I mostly hung out with Tucker. But yeah. It was hard to be part of the crowd when I was home 'sick' for weeks at a time."

Michael licked his lips, and it looked like he was bracing himself when he asked, "How long are you going to live?"

"I don't know," West admitted. "How long are you?"

Michael's eyes flared. "Don't sass me, kid."

Despite the gravity of the situation, West couldn't help but laugh just a little. "I swear I'm not. It's just that none of us have any guarantees, Michael. You thought you had decades with Mary, didn't you?"

"Don't." Michael's voice was frigid.

West held up both hands, anxious that he might have just made a severe misstep. Michael always got on edge when the people he loved were in danger, but this was worse than usual, and West had no idea how to talk him back down.

"I'm not making light of it, I swear to you, Michael," he promised. "It's just that I don't have a good answer for you. Before my generation, HLHS patients never made it past childhood. But the consensus seems to be that there's no reason I can't live a normal lifespan if I take care of myself."

"You've been doing a bang-up job of that," Michael said sarcastically. "Running yourself ragged all over town like some self-appointed Mr. Fix-It? Spending days on the road handling deliveries for Gus? Eating at greasy spoons and sleeping in the back of your truck?"

"I—"