"Are you kidding me?" I know he’s stressed out. I know he has a huge problem on his plate right now.
But come on.
The room I've entered is the same size and shape as the sitting room in my suite, though Titus uses his as an office. There's a door connecting it to a room that’s dark, but there’s enough illumination from the office that I can see a bed, making his bedroom in the same general spot as mine. But where my suite is just the sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom, Titus has two more doors off his office. One probably goes to that laundry room he was bragging about, and the other must go to the workout room I was worried he’d stroke out in.
But those additional rooms aren’t the only difference between his rooms and mine. The major difference is my rooms are clean, and his rooms are...
Absolutely not.
I pick my way across the room so I can slide the tray onto thedesk where Titus is aggressively slamming his fingers into a keyboard.
"You need to eat." I know I shouldn’t boss him around, but it seems like someone needs to. Left to his own devices, Titus seems to have only gone through the motions of existing. Working and breathing and that's about it.
My eyes linger on his face, tracing the shiny lines of the scars puckering the still slightly reddened skin of his right side. I don't have much experience with what the healing process looks like for an injury of the caliber he suffered, but I don't think it's new. It doesn't look angry or inflamed. Everything seems as healed as it’s going to get.
And I have to wonder how long Titus has just been existing. How many years he's been locked in these rooms, hidden away from the world.
My eyes leave him to drift through the space around us. I can't imagine looking at these walls day in and day out. Not just because I like a change of scenery every now and then, but because everything in here is depressing. Bare-bones and cluttered with discarded water bottles and packing materials from all the orders he's placed to avoid leaving. The air is stale and stagnant, and while it’s not technically dirty in here, it is definitely dusty.
I turn back to discover Titus hasn't even noticed the food I brought him. I'm not surprised. The man seems to be the king of tunnel vision. When he focuses on something, it's like nothing else exists.
And while I like it when that focus is directed at me, I'm not as amused by it when it means he'll go hungry.
Picking up half the pot roast sandwich I fashioned out of the food Deidre sent, I hold it up. "Here."
Titus makes a sound of acknowledgment, but doesn't offer any words as he reaches for the food without taking his eyes off the screen. He continues typing with one hand as he takes a huge bite of the meat, bread, and toppings, chewing through the mouthful as he continues to work.
Satisfied he’s going to get a little something in his stomach, I turn my attention to the office. It needs help, and I'm going to take advantage of Titus’s distraction to try and make a dent in correcting that. If he wasn't wrapped up in fixing whatever problem is going on, there's no way he would let me clean up the space. Not because he doesn't want me messing with his stuff, but because he seems to get nervous whenever I do anything more strenuous than cooking. Like he's worried I'm going to drop dead or something.
So I quietly slip out of the room to retrieve a few trash bags, shaking them open—since that's a pretty noisy procedure—before sneaking back into his office. I work while Titus works, him doing something technical and way above my pay grade, and me doing what he won't do for himself.
The thought makes my stomach lurch. Because why won't Titus do this for himself? Does he think he deserves to live like this? I can’t imagine it's because he's lazy—the man works like crazy—so that means it has to be something else.
And I have plenty of time to come up with scenarios as I bag up everything that's obviously garbage and roll it down the stairs. Nothing is heavy or gross, so the bags are light and easy enough to just chuck one after the other.
Just clearing away the trash makes a huge difference, but the dusty mustiness still tickles my nose. I decide it's worth the risk of grabbing his attention to run a vacuum over the carpet. I locate the attachment from the upstairs closet and hook it into the central system, cringing a little as I switch on.
And learn Titus’s tunnel vision is also apparently tunnel hearing, because he doesn't even flinch at the noise. Since he seems oblivious, I take my time, cleaning all the nooks and crannies, sucking down every bit of dust and debris I can find. I get the shelves. I get the ceiling fan. I sweep along the baseboards and across the windowsills. I clean it all. I even vacuum under the chair he's sitting in.
Once all that's done, I bring in a can of surface cleaner and arag so I can wipe all the surfaces. When I’m finished, I'm pretty pleased with how decent the room looks, so I sneak into the next room over.
Flipping on the light, my heart sinks. Not because this room is just as messy as the one before, but because of how empty it is. It's just a mattress and box spring on a simple frame, covered with sheets and a blanket, a couple pillows piled on top. There's no furniture. No art on the wall. No decorations or knickknacks. Just a bed and blinds.
I turn to where Titus is still working away, the emptiness of his life making me ache. He deserves so much more than to sit here alone all day working. He deserves whatever sort of company he wants. Time to enjoy all the good things life has to offer.
And he sure as heck deserves fresh sheets.
Setting to work peeling away the blankets, I collect them into a pile before carrying them to find the attached laundry room he offered to let me use. I dump all the linens into the washer, add in detergent and a scoop of the scented beads I find on the shelf above, and set it to run.
On my way back downstairs to retrieve more cleaning supplies, I pause to pick up the other half of Titus’s sandwich, pressing it into his hand before going to find the fabric refresher and Scrubbing Bubbles.
My next hour is spent spritzing his mattress and pillows, vacuuming and dusting his bedroom, and giving his bathroom a good scrub. By the time that's all done, he's managed to eat everything on his plate, and I take it downstairs, bringing back a bottle of water so he stays hydrated. The buzzer on the dryer goes off just as I return, letting me know his bedding is finished. I pull out the fluffy, warm collection and go to work putting everything back in place. When I'm finished, I drop down onto the mattress, pulling in a deep breath. Getting his rooms in order wasn’t a crazy amount of work—nowhere near as much as cleaning downstairs—but I still got a lot done.
Now what in the heck do I do?
I've gotten so used to having Titus around, I'm a little lost without his presence to factor into my activities. Normally, now’s when we would sit together on the couch watching television and talking, but that’s off the table, at least for tonight. So, once I’m showered and moisturized and in my pajamas, I call the other person I love talking to.
Janie answers right away. "Is everything going okay? Do I need to come get you?"
