I shake my head. “I knew I wasn’t going crazy.”
“I was. That Foster guy put his hands on you, and I was ready to explode.”
Foster? He was jealous of Foster?
I’m not even going to justify this with an explanation.
“Sir, you haven’t been in my life for 11 years, and this is what you want to do right now? Pick a fight over a situation you know nothing about?”
“No,” he says softly. “A fight is the last thing I want. But I regret not getting to you first. I regret not being the one to rush you to the hospital.”
Is he joking? “You haven’t been around to look after me in over a decade, so you don’t have the right to get all protective now.”
It’s the same old same old. One of us gets jealous. The other one deflects. Both of us get worked up, and either have makeup sex, or we both walk away, and I slam a door.
But now is not the best time for makeup sex, seeing as I’m very sick.
“You’re right. I don’t have the right to be protective of you,” he replies.
I look at him and sigh. Something else is different. The youthful petulance has gone out of him. He’s matured, it seems. At least, that’s what he wants me to think.
“You should go. I don’t want you to catch the virus,” I tell him.
With a lift of his eyebrows that nearly does me in, he says, “Not happening.” Those charming forehead lines just did something to me.
I must be out of my mind.
I used to love it when Ewan got annoyed with me for telling him not to fuss over me. When we were good, he always went out of his way to make sure I had everything I needed: bringing me my favorite drink at a party, packing extra snacks on a long drive, filling up the tank in my car without being asked. Even when we weren’t good, he would still do these things. He’d just do them mad.
I smile, remembering how turned on I would get when he would have that scowl on his face throughout all the small acts of service I never asked him to do.
He’s not scowling, now. He’s just telling me the facts. He’s not going anywhere until I’m better.
It’s so out of line, keeping an eye on me, knowing where I go and who I associate with, but not bothering to call or text.
Okay, maybe these facts make my stomach do a little somersault. It might be my most toxic trait that I’m a tiny bit satisfied that my ex been watching me live my life, start a business, be involved in my hometown, hang out with friends, go to the gym, and generally be awesome.
All the while, Ewan is doing what?
Not trimming his eyebrows, for starters. In fact, there are small tells everywhere that he’s not been taking care of himself. His eyes are bloodshot. His neck desperately needs a shave, and he needs to wash his hair. He’s wearing the same The Roots T-shirt he wore under his high school graduation robe, only now it’s so worn down it’s almost see-through and stretched out over his filled-out biceps and chest.
Ewan’s hands are aged and scarred way beyond what they should be at 31. Those jeans have seen better days, and don’t even get me started on the Crocs. His style certainly hasn’t changed from his teen years.
“You look like shit,” I say.
He gives me a half grin. “Said the lady in a hospital gown with her ass crack hanging out.”
“Rude,” I say, adjusting the blanket and making sure all skin is covered, which it is. He was pulling my leg.
I make a face. “When was the last time you slept?”
Is his chin trembling? His hands seem fidgety. “When was the last time you ate more than a salad and half a crouton?” Ewan asks, his voice cracking.
“Well, you don’t have to stalk me to know that. My diet hasn’t changed since we were teens,” I reply with a smirk.
Then, something strange happens that I’m not prepared for. Ewan leans forward and plants his elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his hands.
I stare at him, not sure if he’s just tired or sick of my bullshit.
