I am sick for days. Fi and Dad stay away. Fi because she just had a stomach flu and I don’t want to give her my cold, and Dad because he’s become an extreme hypochondriac in recent years. Just the mere mention of illness has him running for the hills.
But I have Gray, who only leaves me to attend finish up his finals and attend practice. Then he’s back. He’s made me meals, fluffed my pillow, nagged me to drink my juice like a good little Mac, and given me antibiotics when I needed it for my bronchitis.
And every night, he sleeps by my side, spooning me for comfort, and rubbing my back when my hideous, hacking cough gets the better of me. As if by silent consensus, neither of us mentions that having phone sex and sleeping together every night might be crossing the line of friendship. It feels too good to have him there, and he doesn’t appear to want to leave.
But now lying in bed with the morning light stretching across my pillow, I know I’m well. Nothing hurts. No more cough from hell. I glance at the closed bedroom door. From the other side of it come the sounds of Gray in the kitchen. He’s been feeding me copious amounts of steel-cut oats topped with blueberries in an effort to “promote healing.”
Oatmeal and I have a tempestuous relationship. Somehow, every time I attempt to make it, the fucker revolts and turns to glop. Not Gray’s oatmeal. It’s like the pinnacle of oatmeal. What all little oats hope to one day become: fucking delicious and nutritious—Gray’s words, not mine.
Truth is, I knew I was better last night. I think Gray knew, as well. And we’d both ignored it. He’d fussed over me, carrying me to the couch and wrapping me up in a blanket. And when we’d settled into bed, there had been a moment of awkward silence, our bodies going tense in the cool darkness, before he pulled me close in that way of his—possessive yet tender. “Try to get some sleep,” he’d murmured gruffly. I hadn’t been sure if he was talking to me or to himself.
And I’d pretended to still be that sick, fitful woman who needed comfort, not the one who relished the feel of his hard body pressed against mine, the needy girl who wanted to turn in his arms and explore those fine, firm muscles. At length.
But how could I take advantage of his care? I never pegged Gray as the nurturing type. Which isn’t fair. Gray is a kind man. And the more I know of him, the more I understand that he goes out of his way to make others happy. But, in my admittedly small experience, most men don’t do well with illness. I think of his mother who died from cancer. It makes my heart hurt to imagine a younger Gray caring for his dying mother. He rarely speaks of her, or anything deep.
With a sigh, I sit up, and my head doesn’t spin. Yep. Better.
All of Gray’s attentive care will end today. I can’t hide my good health any longer. It would be wrong and weird.
Reluctantly, I head to the bathroom. His toothbrush sits next to mine. The sum total of the personal effects he’s brought with him. Not enough to signify. I try to ignore that as I brush my teeth.
With slow movements I take a shower and scrub myself clean. The hot water is bliss, highlighting my new and improved state. Which is just depressing. It had been a mistake to let Gray stay so close. I’m used to him now.
When I finally leave my bedroom, dressed and bright-eyed, my heart is a lead weight in my chest.
Gray is setting down bowls of oatmeal, but he stills when I walk in. We stare at each other for a long moment, neither of us moving.
“All better now,” I tell him.
He nods, his gaze slipping away to focus on setting down a pair of spoons.
“I figured.” And then it’s as if he is drifting away, like a boat that’s had its line cut. His gaze turns inward as he scratches the back of his head, the action bunching his biceps. “I’m glad you’re well again.”
“Yeah.” I’m not glad at all.
* * *
Gray