When she uncovers his plan to lead an entirely uneventful life, Mia Evian is determined to teach Preston Maddox how to stop living like a ghost, but Mia and Preston have history, tension, and a lot of complicated feelings.
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A few days turn into a few weeks, and in hindsight, I was naive to think they wouldn't.
I as good as move into Preston's bedroom, only returning to my flat for brief intervals, and only really leaving his house for lectures and Typewriter Magazine meetings, of which I'm now primary editor. On the days I feel confident enough in Preston being alone for an hour or two, Margot and I will do something together, even if it's just heading to Dolly's for hot chocolate.
The first few days are the most difficult. Preston barely talks to me, not out of stubbornness; his brain is so foggy that he can't string words into coherent sentences. When he eventually woke up the day I moved myself in, he didn't know why I was there–couldn't remember me tending to him a few hours prior, not initially. I'm itching to replace his bed sheets, to get him a change of clothes–a shower, ideally–to make him call his mum, to speak with his doctor, but I resist the urge to overwhelm him.
He continues not sleeping very much, and when he does, his nightmares comment begins to make sense. He only suffered with the occasional one during the nights we spent together over Easter and summer, and he was always dismissive of them. The most I could ever get out of him was a non-descriptive PTSD remark. I'm not sure he'll ever tell me more than that, so all I can do is my best–try to ground him afterwards, ask if he needs anything, reassure him.
During those first few days, one of the few coherent conversations we have begins with him saying, 'sorry.'
'What for?' I query, simply relieved he's saying anything at all.
We're lying in bed as dusk is creeping in, the natural light spilling into his bedroom and casting a warm orange glow over everything. Preston responds to my question with a slow blink, and I've lost him–I'm convinced he's lost track again–when he answers me.
'The plant.'
I furrow my brow, clueless. I'm scanning his face in search of an explanation when it hits me. He's talking about the Swiss cheese plant–the one I bought him the night he hosted a Typewriter meeting at his house.
'What do you mean?' I try.
He hesitates, blinking again. 'What are we–Sorry, I can't remember what we were...'
'The Swiss cheese plant,' I gently remind him. 'You apologised, but I don't know what for.'
'Oh,' he says, then adds, 'I killed it. I'm sorry.'
I'm shaking my head. 'No. No, it's here–there. Look, it's there. It's fine.'
I point behind him and in the direction of his windowsill where the plant lives, perfectly green and alive. Preston doesn't exert the energy–or rather, doesn't have the energy–to turn and look at where I'm pointing.
'It's alive,' I assure him.
It wasn't in the best state when I first arrived, no, but it wasn't dead. Given the circumstances, it should've been nothing but a withered stalk trapped in dry, cracked soil.
