I can’t sleep though, because my mind keeps thinking about Lincoln, so out of bed I get to see that his room door is still shut. What, is he jerking off in there or something? That would be so hilarious if I opened the door and found him doing that. What would I do if I did? My curiosity is killing me.
I shouldn’t be curious, but this manwasmy husband, so why am I feeling guilty about it? Turning the knob, the door swings open, and I peer inside.
“Lincoln?”
He’s fast asleep on his bed.
The room is dark. As a matter of fact everything is dark now. “Lincoln?” I call out again.
Nothing. Weird.
Going to the bed, he still has all his clothes on.
His shoes are on. He’s on his tummy, lying down on the left side of his face, his arms at his sides.
He’s breathing through his mouth, snoring lightly. He’s so handsome. God damn it, I hate this.
For some reason my man, sorry, myex-man, looks more handsome now than he did even when we were married. Maybe it’s because I know I’m supposed to stay off-limits with him, but I can’t just leave him like this. It feels wrong, and I don’t like people lying down on the bed with shoes, even though his shoes aren’t making contact with the bed.
He’s still in the bed with shoes on, and I know that’s not comfortable. So I kneel and unlace his boots, taking them off. I expect him to groan sleepily, but he remains conked out. I place them to the side neatly by the wall in his bedroom.
I then peel off his socks. When I see the bottom of his feet, I gasp. He has blisters.
What the hell?
Poor Lincoln. He hasn’t had blisters on his feet for a long time, but then again who am I kidding? I haven’t been around him in a couple of years, so this might be something that he lived with. But I made sure he had the right shoes so he could be on his feet all day and not get blisters. Where are the shoes I bought him long ago? He probably ran them into the ground, pun intended, and then never replaced them, because Lincoln is the kind of guy who doesn’t shop for himself.
He’ll get something that he thinks is efficient and should work, and he’ll be uncomfortable and not get himself proper shoes. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s like he likes the pain or something.
I don’t want to rouse him from sleep, so I just put a cool rag, not too cold, on each of his feet. The blisters, some of them already popped. This must be painful.
That’s why his socks were sticky. It was from the liquid and some of the blood. He’s exhausted.
Just my nurturing nature about me. I’ve got to be thorough. Maybe there’s a way I can get off his overcoat.
Even though he’s lying down on his stomach, his arms are in such a way that I can’t move it without waking him up. I try to peel the collar back to see if I can get a good grip on the coat, and then I feel his neck. He’s been asleep for a few hours, but he’sveryhot.
Maybe it’s because he’s wearing this coat. Now I’m legitimately worried about him.
“Lincoln?” Lincoln, wake up.”
He’s not waking up, and he must be super exhausted.
Morris meows, looking up at the bed.
“Just a minute, Morris, hold on, baby,” I tell the cat. “Lincoln, wake up,” I say over and over again. “We got to get this coat off you.”
No response.
“Lincoln?”
Lincoln won’t wake up.
Chapter 2
I try again, shaking him softly at first, calling his name over and over again, but panic starts clawing up my throat. Every time my hand touches his face or his neck, I feel how hot he is. Not warm. Hot. Burning up. His breathing is so shallow I have to lean close just to hear it, and even then, I barely can.
He was sitting here cooking in his coat, probably felt sick before, and I didn’t notice anything.
