Because I hate Heritage, Nebraska, and try to spend as little time there as possible. Some of my worst memories are tied to that place. The trapped feeling I get whenever I’m home makes me want to take a flying leap.
“It’s…just not my favorite place. Let me come with you to Fort Bender. We can tell your parents together.”
Willa nibbles her lip for several seconds as she thinks. I spend the time gazing at the arches of her eyebrows, the slope of her nose, the outline of her lips—I can’t help but admire all that she is. Too quickly, she lets out a sigh and shakes her head, etching over my reverie
“Hey.” I place my hand on her foot. “We’re in this together. Let me support you.”
A grimace scrolls across her face, but it’s gone by the time she looks at me. Her head falls back on the couch, and she nods as a yawn stretches her jaw.
“Yeah?”
She yawns again, eyes drooping closed as she rolls to her side and curls her legs in. “Yes, Trevor. Come to Bender.” Another yawn, and she mumbles, “You might as well see the dysfunction in all of its glory.” A couple of deep breaths later, she’s out like a light.
The bags under her eyes are so dark, it’s clear shehasn’t slept while she’s been sick. I can’t stand the thought of her waking up with a sore body on top of a sour stomach, so I stand from the couch and scoop her in my arms. She murmurs something when her head flops against my chest, but stays asleep as I walk her down the hallway. Besides a small bathroom, her bedroom is the only other room on this side of the house. As I settle her under the pintuck comforter, the pale moonlight streaming through the window casts peaceful shadows over her face.She’s so damn beautiful.I press a kiss to her forehead, just because it feels right.
After tucking her in, I grab her phone and some snacks from the kitchen, and leave them on her nightstand, closing the door softly while backing into the hallway. Then I clean up and settle on her couch. I’ll sleep here tonight, just in case she needs me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
WILLA
There’s a bag of potato chips on my nightstand. I’ve been staring at it since I woke up, not daring to touch it, or the water, or the ginger candy. My phone is suspect too. I don’t remember coming to bed last night, which means that man carried me to my room—pregnancy wristbands and all—and left me a bag of chips. I’m not sure how I feel about that. The only reason I’m reaching for the candy right now is because of the sour plume bubbling in my stomach. But I’m not touching the chips. I draw the line at the chips.
Slipping the wristbands off, I head into my bathroom. It takes me all of three minutes and a gag on my toothbrush to run back to my bed and put them back on. Whatever magic these things have, I need them.
I breathe a sigh at the relieving pressure and get a sudden craving for potato soup. It’s the only thing that sounds good as I grab my phone and make my way to the kitchen. As annoyed as I was when Trevor showed up unannounced, I have to admit he knows what he’s doing. I feel a little bad for keeping him in the dark, but seriously, how was I supposed to know he was a morning sickness aficionado? And efficient at cleaning up, apparently.
My kitchen is spotless. I’ve been sick for days, just leaving everything out on display while my energy waned. Right now, my white quartz countertops sparkle, the stovetop glistens, and there’s a lemony fresh scent coming from the sink. The roll of paper towels is back in its holder, the garbage can is empty—I’m pretty sure the floor has been mopped. The last flower hanging from that poor purple orchid in the window even looks perkier.I really need to try and save that plant. There’s a note tucked under a can of ginger ale:
Leftover soup’s in the fridge. See you at 3:00. —Trev
My stomach grumbles as I read the word soup. I’m so hungry, my feet are on their way to the fridge before I realize where I’m headed. As I wait for the microwave to finish, I marvel at the tenacity of this man. Without my asking, Trevor came to my house, eased my nausea, carried me to bed, and cleaned my mess like a goddamn superhero. And he wasn’t mad about any of it. I know I should have told him I was sick when he asked how I was feeling on Monday. And Tuesday. And yesterday. But I don’t do needy. The thought of asking anyone for something when I’m sick makes me want to crawl out of my skin. Hell, asking anyone for help withanythingmakes me feel inadequate.
I learned at an early age that asking for help was a waste of my time, since people are determined to believe being book smart means you have no struggles in life. By people, I mostly mean my parents. Any problems I had growing up were met with:
“You’ll figure it out.”
“You’re not trying hard enough.”
And my personal favorite, “We don’t have to worry about you.”
By the time I graduated from high school, I’d had enough and walked away. My parents told me I was on my own and not to come to them for help. I haven’t. I’ve worked my ass off foreverything I have right now—my car, the studio, this sparkling clean house with a mortgage in my name. I don’t want to get used to having someone in my space, offering to help me. Not when the help has a time limit.
Using a towel, I pull the hot soup from the microwave and walk straight to the couch. The plush throw blanket I usually have draped across the back is folded on a cushion with military precision. I look around the room before I sit. Everything else in here has been tidied up too. From the magazines on my glass coffee table—arranged in a neat little stack—to the remotes lined up next to them. When I wrap the throw around my legs, the smell of Christmas elicits an exasperated sigh. I pull out my phone.
Me
You didn’t have to clean my house…
Trevor
I think you mean, “Gee, thanks, Trev. You’re so kind. And funny. And handsome.”
Me
Thank youfor cleaning up. And for dinner. It was nice.
Trevor
