“But this is making it worse,” she says, voice tight.
“Not possible,” I mumble. “Your boobs could never make anything worse.”
I see her fight a smile, then she eases back in against me carefully.
“Okay,” she says finally, barely audible. “But I hold onto the pills. You stop when I say.”
My mouth twitches. “Yes, ma’am.”
“And you have to eat something. Even if it’s just a little,” she says. “And you can’t even say no because you’re obsessed with feeding me.”
I want to argue, but she’s not wrong.
“Fine. A little,” I say.
Chapter Thirty Seven
Erica
The pill goes down with a sip of water that I have to help him with.
He doesn’t complain. Of course he doesn’t. He just takes it, lets his head fall back against the recliner, and closes his one good eye like he can will his body into cooperating.
He needs food.
All I have is the roast. I stare toward the kitchen, suddenly unsure.
I turn and head that way, no other choice.
The roast is still in the pan where I left it, still pretty hot. The mashed potatoes are still in the bowl, lid on, ice cold.
I scoop some of the potatoes into a pan and rewarm it gently because, despite everything that’s happened tonight, I still want them to be good and not goopy.
At least everything is soft.
Potatoes. Carrots. Slices of roast cut thin enough that he won’t have to work his jaw too hard. The thought of him chewing makes my stomach tighten, so I keep it simple.
I take a scoop of mashed potatoes and spread it across the plate, place the roast slices in the middle, and lay the carrots around it, then pour some of the gravy I made from the drippings on top.
I look at it. It’s how I pictured serving it when he got back. I even looked up some pictures online to see the prettiest way to present the roast.
Well, he won’t see it, but at least it won’t go to waste.
I grab a fork and carry them both back to the living area.
Nico is exactly where I left him. Reclined, towel still around his waist, one eye swollen shut, the other half-lidded. The compress is on his jaw. The cold pack is near his eye.
Neither is probably hot or cold anymore. I make a note to get him new ones.
He opens his good eye when he hears me.
“Come sit,” he says.
I stop short.
“No,” I say, because I’m not doing this again. “You’re hurt. I’m going to put this down, and you’re going to—”
“Sit,” he repeats, and even with his jaw stiff and his voice rough, it’s still him. Still a command.
