Then Beau sat at the end of the sofa, lifting up my legs and placing them in his lap. His fingers trailed across my sock-laden feet.
I couldn’t speak because I was too stricken by shock, by the unexpected pleasure of the contact. Beau’s large fingers deftly massaged my feet as his eyes trailed over the TV.
He was acting as if this were normal. As if we sat on the sofa every night touching like this. Casual and intimate at the same time.
I wanted to set boundaries. Wanted to protect myself. Demand answers as to the cause of his rapid change, his sudden attentiveness. But it felt too good. And I was tired, the painkillers still hadn’t kicked in.
Instead, I looked from the TV to Beau. “I didn’t take you as aHousewiveskind of guy,” I remarked dryly.
“You like it,” was his response.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“You watch it sometimes, after Clara goes to bed.”
I knew he watched me. But I’d been under the impression that it was to find things I was doing wrong. To ensure I was following his rules.
I’d never considered that he was watching me just to … watch me.
It was all too confusing for my throbbing head. So I didn’t say anything. I just watched grown women scream at each other in a restaurant on the TV while I got the best foot massage of my life.
Beau stayed to eat his cheeseburger. I informed him that removing his mask to eat defeated the purpose of his mask, and I again weakly tried to get him to leave.
He didn’t listen to me, merely told me that Elliot had just done a temperature check of Clara, and it was normal. She seemed well.
For the time being.
I couldn’t relax. At the back of my mind, terror lurked that she’d contract what I had, that she wouldn’t survive it, being taken from us all by an everyday flu.
The shadows in Beau’s gaze told me that his thoughts mirrored mine.
“You should go to her,” I attempted again as he cleared the plates, stacking them neatly on the room service tray.
“Clara,” I pressed. “She needs you. And I don’t want to get you sick.” The painkillers had kicked in, and the soup had been heavenly, so I felt slightly better.
Beau ignored me again. I was about to try to speak more forcefully, but then my stomach lurched, my mouth went dry, and I summoned the energy to leap off the sofa to run to the bathroom.
I made it to the toilet in time to empty my stomach. Thankfully, it was only the broth that came back up. But that was bad enough when I heard footfalls behind me, followed by running water.
Beau was there. In the bathroom. As I vomited.
There was a boundary that I was more than happy to hold.
“Go away,” I said into the toilet bowl. “This is where we part, Beau. Allow me some remaining dignity.”
Again, he didn’t speak. Instead, I heard more footsteps then felt a cool towel on the back of my neck. I couldn’t even argue; the sensation was so refreshing.
“Why are you here?” I moaned. “You hate me.”
The heaving had stopped, and I was reasonably sure I was done vomiting.
I tried to wipe my face, but Beau used a damp washcloth to do that for me. If I had enough energy to feel embarrassed, I would have. But all my strength was going to keeping my eyes open, keeping my heart beating, and keeping my brain circuits firing.
While trying to figure out how I was going to make it from the floor to the bed, I decided that the cold tile floor was as good a bed as any. I’d never stayed at a hotel this nice. The bathroom floor was probably more hygienic than the bedroom I grew up in.
Beau’s presence was a problem, of course. Now that he was being a caring human being to me, I doubted he’d leave me alone huddled on the floor.
Before I could try to form words, I was in the air.
