I nod to the apartment building. “Her place isn’t safe for the baby. It’s trashed. Any chance you could call in a cleaning crew to scour the place?” I swallow a great big lump of pride to admit, “I’m in over my head, I think. But that’s not Donovan’s fault.”
Just like with Andy, Huang softens slightly at that. He actually very nearly smiles. “Is that the baby’s name? Donovan?”
And fuck if that smile isn’t infectious. “Yeah. I named him after McNabb,” I boast proudly. Lin’s a cocktwit, but he gets it.
“You . . . you named him?” He frowns but then shakes his head before caving with a nod. “It’s a goodname.”
Chapter 14
Tilly
Five days is nowhere near the longest hospital stay I’ve ever had, but I’ve never been so excited and ready to leave. I hate being in the hospital when I’m sick; I hate being in the hospital even more when I’m healthy.
Which is why, when I’m trudging up the stairs to my third-floor unit, Blaise behind me with one hand at the base of my spine, the other carrying Donovan in his car seat, I grit my teeth and refuse to admit that my abdomen is on fire. I just need to get inside and sit for a moment, then I’ll be fine.
He unlocks the door but holds it open for me, his hand high up above my head to give me space to pass. I’m the first one in, and I force myself to walk in confidently, but my stomach buzzes and churns.
He told me he was getting the apartment taken care of, but I was running a fever at the time, so I didn’t really processit except to assume my apartment would be tidied up when I got home. The thought existed without any visual, any thought to how I would feel about it.
It was a disaster before. Not unlivable, and it was easy for me to say the counter was a bit messy and there were a couple dishes in the sink and I needed to put laundry away and . . . and, well, it was a thousand little tasks. A thousand cuts.
I was dying.
I need to sit down before I can let my feelings take over, but when I start to pull out a chair from the ancient dining table, now cleared and polished, the water marks buffed out, Blaise grunts. “Bed. Now.”
It’s what I want, but I also want to protest. I don’t know what I would have done if Blaise hadn’t taken the time out of his life — I guess this is the time of year when he has infinite time — to help me this past week, but he’s also acted like I’ve personally offended him when I never even asked for his help.
He doesn’t give me a chance to voice my protest, though. Or he makes it so I don’t feel obligated to because his attitude makes me prickly. “Doctor’s orders, remember?”
“But Donovan—” I start, already knowing that saying he needs to be cared for is going to go nowhere. But I have to at least act like I’m ready for this. Blaise padded my entry into single motherhood, but I’m still here.
“Is sound asleep. I guess the car thing really does work.” He says it with a soft, easy smile, basking down on baby Donovan.
If I’m being real, if I’m beingreallyreal, if I indulge my fantasies for even the smallest second, if I could make a wish to whatever angel or demon has dictated every wild turn my life is taking, it would be to have Blaise look at me like that.
I grab a couple of the quilts Joss has made me over the years, folded and tucked into one of my fabric cubbies and smelling freshly washed but unperfumed, and roll them up. I use them to shape something like the bed I was on at the hospital, creating both a back rest and a prop for under my knees, before kicking off my shoes. With the assistance I needed for the most basic of care at the hospital, Blaise has seen every inch of me in the most unflattering moments, everything but my baldish head, thanks to the caps I had stashed in my overnight bag, but I resist the urge to undress further before climbing into my nest.
I close my eyes for a long moment, only opening them when I hear the click of the buckle on Donovan’s car seat as Blaise picks him up. My eyes don’t go to them, though. They go all around my apartment.
The clean kitchen, its counters spotless, its dishes shelved. All the lesser-used appliances have been tucked away somewhere. The trash can with the broken lid has been replaced. The floors have been mopped. There’s a box of random stuff, no doubt items the cleaners didn’t know what to do with, but it’s a pretty box.
The den, such as it is, is emptied of clothes, the sofa looking like it got hit with a steam vac and the coffee table cleared. The piles have been organized, everything put where it belongs, tucked into another discreet, pretty box, and now, there’s a beautiful flower arrangement in a fancy vase.
My work station, the one area I was stressed about since thereisa method to my madness, seems to have been addressed by someone who understood. There are no boxes, no wild organization, other than a new whiteboard that has a lot of the loose paperwork stuck to it with magnets. I can see everything’s been dusted, though, and although nothing otherthan the paperwork has been removed, everything simply looks neater.
I can’t see into my bathroom from here, but I swear I can smell the cleaning products wafting from it, the scents light and refreshing.
I sniffle. I don’t mean to. I guess I just don’t realize how congested my nose is when I take a deep breath.
Blaise’s eyes flash right to me, his reflexes like lightning. He looks genuinely concerned, too, but only for a second before it cools to indifference. Still, he asks, “You need something?” and that’s gotta count for a little.
“The flowers are pretty, that’s all,” I murmur, hoping he gets that I appreciate the gesture.
“They’re from the Allores.”
“Oh.”
“Word got around.”
