Which means?—
“Ziggy?”
“What?”
Nope.
Not going away.
He’sclomp-clomp-clomping into the bedroom.
My stomach heaves. My arms and legs are shaky and I’m sweating and I hope this is just morning sickness.
Itisjust morning sickness, isn’t it? “Please don’t come in here.”
He ignores me and angles himself and his crutches into the bathroom, then lifts a cloth grocery sack to set it on the counter. “Saltines and seltzer water.”
I whimper.
Jessica whimpers.
She doesn’t growl at him or fling imaginary poop at him either.
Not this time.
“Thank you,” I force out.
He doesn’t leave.
Instead, he props himself against the sink so he can pull a sleeve of crackers out of the bag. Then he bends, holding both of his crutches in one hand and not letting his booted foot touch the ground, and puts the crackers closer to me on the floor.
Same with a bottle of seltzer water from his magic cloth bag.
Tears blur my vision.
This is what friends do.
They take care of each other.
I grab the bottle, but I can’t twist the cap.
I can’t twist the fucking cap.
He bends over again, this time without his crutches but still only on one leg, takes it, opens it, and hands it back to me.
Doesn’t say a word.
I don’t know if he’s looking at me, because I can’t bring myself to look at him.
If I look at him, I might see kindness, and if I see kindness, I might start believing he’s the good guy everyone insists he is, and if I believe he’s that good guy, I might decide we can be friends.
I can be friends with a guy with a chiseled jaw and a five o’clock shadow and hooded brown eyes and dark hair that’s still smushed funny from how he’s slept—or not slept—on it. I can be friends with a guy who’s injured and worried about his future.
I can keep it atjust friendswhen he does things like bringing me saltines and seltzer water.
Stop it, Ziggy.
I take a sip, and my stomach starts to settle as soon as the first drop of seltzer water trickles down my throat.
