“It bothers me to see you here, alone.” His words were tight, clipped.
He rustled through the bag before depositing a water bottle in front of me. When I heard the rattle of pills, I looked up to watch him open a bottle of Tylenol, shake two into his palm, open the water bottle, then hand both to me.
I wanted to fight his presence further, but I needed the pills and the water, so I took them, shaken at seeing Beau present them to me with such care. I was reminded of the delicate way he’d handled my wrist after Calliope’s attack, the featherlight touch. He’d made sure not to touch me—even accidentally—since then.
He gazed at me for a few more beats. I smoothed my hair, internally cringing at what a mess I must look, sweat sticking to my hair, face likely flushed, splotchy. Beau was not looking at me like I was repulsive. In fact, it was the exact opposite. He held the stare for a couple of seconds more, then started unpacking the rest of the bag. Gatorade, more water, the entire cold and flu section of the pharmacy, it seemed.
My eyes traveled over his body, long and strong. He moved around the room with purpose, lining up medications, putting the drinks in the fridge.
I waited until he was done, not that I had another option. I didn’t have the strength to even offer to help.
“Thank you.” I hoped he heard my sincerity. “For bringing all of this. There’s enough to get me through the next three illnesses I have in the future,” I joked weakly.
Beau ignored me, reaching toward the hotel phone.
He pressed buttons, waiting as he held it to his ear. “Yes, I would like some chicken soup, clear broth, a cheeseburger, and fries. Thank you.” His voice was low, rumbly, but also the politest I’d ever heard it.
I didn’t see the value of informing him that I could’ve picked up the phone myself, something I had been planning to do before he arrived.
“The broth is a good call, but I don’t think I’ll be able to stomach a cheeseburger,” I told him.
Beau turned to me. “The cheeseburger is for me. I’m fucking starving.”
I stared at him, barking out a weak laugh. “Beau Shaw, the pillar of organic, no sugar, no dyes, no fun is ordering acheeseburger?”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Fancy hotels make good cheeseburgers.” He then walked out of the room, into the bedroom.
I didn’t bother asking what he was doing. I didn’t even have the energy to feel any kind of thrill over him going in there. I laid my head back on the pillow of the sofa, counting down how long it would be before the pills kicked in.
Beau emerged from the bedroom with a plush throw and a large pillow.
“Up,” he ordered.
I sat up quickly because he was coming at a fast pace. Even through the throbbing anvil in my head and the congestion in my nose, I smelled pine and ocean and Beau. As he fussed with the pillow, my muscles relaxed at his nearness.
“Lay back,” he muttered.
I dutifully did as I was told, looking up at him, hovering so close I could feel his breath on my face. Warm. Pleasing.
“Your bedside manner needs improving,” I rasped.
He carefully placed the throw over my body. Once done, he didn’t move; he hovered there, above me.
With painstaking slowness and tenderness, Beau reached forward and brushed the hair from my face.
I couldn’t see his mouth, but his eyes were soft at the edges, reverent. I could barely catch my breath, staring at him.
He stayed like that, suspended in time for too long. Not long enough. My body was not equipped to fight off both an illness and the growing attraction I had to Beau.
The spell broke when Beau shook himself, straightening. He didn’t dally for long, finding the remote and turning on the TV. He switched channels quickly, eyes flipping from one movie to the next, briefly pausing on a news segment before settling on a reality show.
I expected him to situate himself on the armchair away from me, stay true to the distance he’d been forcing between us since that horrible night.
It had been both a relief and a resentment, the distance. As much as Beau was growing on me—by that I meant invading both my dreams and daily thoughts—it was too complicated. I hadn’t even entirely extracted myself from Waylon yet. And I hadn’t entirely forgiven Beau for his poor treatment of me. I didn’t knowwhyhe treated me so poorly.
And I could never catch my breath around him, could never decide if he liked me, desired me, hated me.
My lesson should’ve been well and truly learned by now.
