A few minutes later, Jack returns to the bedroom with a teal-colored packet tucked under his armpit, a plate with a PB&J, a glass of milk, and…his thick-rimmed glasses.
I stare unabashedly. As if his outfit wasn’t dangerous enough. Those glasses are going to be the death of me.
A proud smile tugs at Jack’s lips as he shakes his head. “I hope you know you look at me in glasses the same way you do when I’m in a towel, and it’s bruising my ego.”
“Imagine how I would look at you if you wore thoseanda towel.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he snorts.
He puts my plate on a side table, leaving and returning with a wooden lap tray he must have also bought yesterday. So far, I have him to thank for a new wedge pillow, which has been a lifesaver, apparently a TV, and this desk. He opens the legs and puts it over my lap before placing the plate and glass of milk on top.
“Jack Parker, you spoil me.” I flutter my eyelashes.
“Good, you deserve to be spoiled after all the things you’ve done for me.” He leans down, pressing a kiss on my forehead, and I scrunch my nose at the affection. Moonbeams threaten to shoot out of my face at any moment, with the incandescent feeling spiraling instead. His lips may be stronger than any of the painkillers they prescribed.
My brother bows under the doorframe while Jack’s lips leave my forehead. I wait for a scowl to be flashed in Jack’s direction, the typical expression he reserves for people I’m involved with, but he smiles—a bit. “Help me with this.” He nods to the box he’s carrying. My desk in front of my bed is covered with folders and notebooks needed for the fair, and Jack gathers them, heading toward the door.
“Where are you going with those?” I ask.
“Guest room. You won’t need them.” He grins at me, a bit of a challenge in his eyes because I can’t do a damn thing to stop him.
“As long as you bring them back tomorrow.”
“Told you she’d be a pain in the ass with the bedrest order.” Gus shakes his head.
“Rude. And I’m not being a pain in the ass; I have responsibilities.” I huff.
“Eat your sandwich, Alouette. We can fight about what you’re going to do and not do for the next week later.” He takes out a box knife and slashes through the tape on the box. When Jack said they bought me a TV, I expected a small twenty-four-inch thing or something, but the thing Gus is trying to set up barely fits on my large mahogany desk.
I think about what Aunt Camille said, about people showing they love me through actions rather than words, and I try to hug that to my chest and bury the awkward feelings I’ve had bubbling all night after my “I love you” wasn’t returned.
I grab one half of my sandwich, which I’m happy to see Jack cut diagonally. I don’t know why PB&Js taste better when they’re cut that way, but it’s a truth universally acknowledged that they do.
Gus hooks up the TV and every streaming service known to humanity, while I finish my sandwich. After, Jack sits beside me on the bed with the folder he brought in earlier. “Are you ready to go over everything?”
I swallow. Yes, and no. I’ve been so relieved to find something was wrong with me, but now, staring at thewhatthat terrifies me. What if it’s going to get worse? What if there’s no cure? What if it’s still not that big of a deal, and I’m still a total softie?
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” I flash him a hesitant smile. He pulls out four or five sheets of glossy picture paper. Graphic pictures of the inside of my body sit in a two-by-two grid on every page. I skipped Anatomy and Physiology in college, so I don’t have a clue what I’m looking at, but whatever they are, they aren’t pretty. “They showed you these?”
I feel like seeing pictures of my organs should be something we reserved for later down in the relationship, not the first freaking week.
“God, I’m lucky you’re still talking to me,” I groan. “I’m sorry for putting all of this on you.”
Jack tucks his finger under my chin. My gaze meets his. Through his thick frames, he narrows his stare with a ferocious intensity, and I squirm, overwhelmed with his undivided attention. “Aurelie Desfleurs, you are not a burden, and you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he says in a low, reverent hush. “I want to be there to share things like this with you. I want to be the biggest fan on your team. Understood? I’d be mad if you kept this from me, not vice versa.”
I nod, losing a breath as he lowers his head to capture my lips in a slow, empowering kiss like he’s claiming me in a way that can never be undone.
He presses his forehead against mine, his eyes drawing close. “I’m not going anywhere, Dessy. I know you well enough to know that has to be at the back of your mind, but tell that panic to quiet.” We rest like that together for a beat until any thought that dares whisper he’s going to leave me is incinerated by the warmth of his touch. “Now, let’s get back to the photos so I can show you how much of a badass you are.”
“I can honestly say that no one has ever described me in that way.”
“They should.” He shrugs. “See this?” Jack points to a large brownish mass hovering near a white mass. “That’s the chocolate cyst that was twisting your ovary. So, they took that out. But they said they found—see these dark red splotches everywhere?” His finger traces over some filmy white stretchy stuff with red splotches. “The doctor said those are adhesions for something.” He flips through the folder and pulls out an information brochure.
“Endometriosis” sits in big letters on the top.
“She called it endo, so I think we can, too. So that’s all this endo stuff. She said, judging by how much you had and what some of it looked like—like those adhesions I showed you, you’ve had it for a long time, and that it’s a bitch and you’re a tough cookie.”
My mind is buzzing, trying to process everything Jack’s relaying to me. Those red splotches and stretchy film are on every photo. My body was loaded with them. And he’s telling me it’s some disease I’ve had awhile? How can that be? I’ve been to the doctors and begged to be listened to. How did they miss all of this? How can I be seeing the word “endometriosis” for the first time now?
