He pauses. “Did you want to help with these too? I’d be good with that.”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “I’m not touching your pants or anything in them.”
He smirks. He must be feeling a little better. It’s the biggest smile I’ve seen all night.
“Is chicken noodle okay?” I ask as he slides his pants down his legs. I immediately gasp and turn around noting black boxer briefs in my head.
“Perfect, but please don’t go to any trouble. You’ve already done so much.”
“I’ll be back.” I walk out of the room without facing him, afraid to see more than I already have.
As soon as I pull the soup pan out of a cabinet, I stop and spin around. What was I thinking, having him here, sleeping in my bed half naked? Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? He’s not my responsibility. We’re not even friends. I shake my head. Who am I kidding? Yes, we are. We text all day long at work and I miss him when I don’t hear from him. If that’s not friends, then what is?
I pour the can of soup into the pot and add water. I open the fridge, thankful I still have half a two-liter of Sprite. Opening another cabinet, I pull out a box of saltines. Soup and crackers are cheap, and they, along with crappy frozen dinners, are about all Idohave in my apartment.
I make my way into the bedroom, carrying crackers, a bowl of soup, and a glass of Sprite on a tray. He’s in my bed, under my covers and his eyes are closed. My breath hitches at the sight of him. He looks good in my bed. Too good.
I clear my throat and his eyes open.
“Hey,” he says with a smile, sitting up.
I lean over and place the tray on his lap.
“Thank you, Liz, this is just what I need.”
His words make me grin. It feels good to help him. I lean forward and press my hand to his forehead. I can’t tell if he’s hot or clammy. I sigh, because I know what I need to do and I don’t want to do it.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” I say hesitantly. Leaning down, I press my lips to his forehead. He’s definitely warm. He moans softly and leans forward into me slightly. I pull back immediately. “Can you take Tylenol?”
“Yes, I can.” He takes a spoonful of soup and moans lightly in appreciation. “Just like Mom used to make.”
In my bathroom, I search through half-empty bottles for some medicine. Finding what I’m looking for, I place two in my hand and make my way back to Finn. He takes them with a sip of Sprite and continues to eat his soup.
Back in the kitchen, I have a few spoonfuls and some crackers myself, but I’m too nervous to eat. What do I do now? It’s 9 p.m. and I’m exhausted. Pulling extra sheets out of the linen closet, I begin making my bed on the couch.
I hear Finn in my bathroom so I dart into my room, hoping to grab my pajamas before he comes back out. I don’t make it. He’s standing in front of me in his boxers, one hand around his neck, causing his muscles to protrude. Spinning around, my eyes almost pop out of my head. It’s not like I haven’t seen a half-naked or even naked man before. I don’t know why he has this effect on me.
I turn back around and try to act like I don’t care as he climbs back into bed.
“Liz, I hate that I’m taking your bed away from you. Please let me have the couch.”
“I love my couch. Sometimes I fall asleep out there anyway.” What a lie. It’s old and lumpy. “Can I get you anything else? I’m going to go to sleep.”
“No, thank you. You’ve done more than enough.” He starts to cough and I feel terrible for him. I rush over and hand him the Sprite to take a drink. Our fingers touch as he takes the glass from me and I pull back.
He gazes up, eyes full of concern. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I don’t know what to say so I nod and walk into the bathroom to brush my teeth and change.
A few minutes later, I exit the bathroom and toss my clothes in the hamper. He’s sound asleep. Turning off the bedside light, I make my way to the couch. Checking the door, I realize I forgot to get our things from his car. I throw on a coat and slippers and run downstairs. I grab his briefcase and my bag and head back up.
Locking my door behind me, I shiver. It’s cold tonight. It must be near forty. I place our bags by the door and take out my notebook. I decide to write about my drive and my day. It’s my nightly ritual. The lights are almost too bright so I decide to turn on my tabletop Christmas tree instead. It casts a warm glow in the room and I finally relax. I begin writing in my notebook and yawn. I’m not sure how much time passes, but I find myself dozing. I place my notebook on the coffee table, set my cell phone alarm, and pull my blanket up to my chin. Glancing back to my bedroom door one last time, I take a deep breath and nod off to sleep.
