I’m panicked that she’ll leave. Panicked that she won’t.
Panicked that I’ll be alone. Panicked that I won’t be alone.
I’m a goddamn mess.
And it’s not because she’s pretty.
It’s because she made me breakfast.
She took care of me.
People don’t take care of me. I take care of them.
But Ziggy—she looked through my attitude and my mood and she brought me exactly what I needed.
It’s hitting me in places that I’m not supposed to get hit.
She meets me downstairs ten minutes after she disappeared into the bathroom to get sick again. “Okay. I’m ready. Let me put Jessica out and then we can go. I’ll meet you at the car.”
There’s something different about her.
Subdued.
Like she’s embarrassed she’s sick or something.
I tell myself it’s not my problem, but it’s hard to exist in this house and not want to make a sick person more comfortable.
Did it for enough years.
It’s instinctive now that I’m not in as much pain myself.
And I’m completely off-balance at being the one who needs help.
The one who can’t offer her as much help as I’d like because of these damn crutches.
I head to the front door, manage to get myself out of it, and hobble down the steps. She catches up before I reach the driveway, where there’s a new small Toyota SUV parked next to my Jeep.
“Could’ve used the Buick,” I grunt. “Or my Jeep.”
She doesn’t reply as she unlocks the passenger door and opens it for me, then takes my crutches and puts them in the back.
She climbs in, starts the car, and shuts off the stereo before I can figure out the language of the podcast or talk show or whatever it is she’d be listening to if I weren’t in the car with her.
And soon we’re on our way as she backs us out of the driveway.
Her hair’s up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing short cotton shorts and a baggy T-shirt. All she needs to complete thesoccer mom running her kids to early morning practicelook is a coffee mug.
One day, that’s what she’ll be doing. Driving her baby to dance classes and soccer practice and piano lessons.
It’s a life I’ll never have—kids are out of the question with the genes I’d pass to them, and so dating to find forever hasn’t been a priority either—but fuck if there isn’t a howl of outraged yearning deep inside of me making my chest hurt at the idea of what she’ll have that I won’t.
I wonder if she knows the full health history of her baby daddy and his family.
Hell, I wonder if she knows her own.
I fiddle with the air conditioning vent to direct the right one toward me.
Hot as balls in here, and I’d say that even if I wasn’t uncomfortable as hell.
