She blows out an audible breath. “You’d better take care of our daughter while we figure out how to get there,” she says, her tone at once demanding and pleading.
Before I can answer, Adhira cuts in, telling her mother the words I didn’t know I needed to hear. “He’s always taking care of me, Mummy. I promise. Elijah is a good man, and I can’t wait for you to meet him.”
She whispers the last sentence, and my heart breaks.
For her and her parents, but for me too. Because if the universe is so cruel as to take her from me,I’m not sure I’ll survive.
She ends the call shortly after, turning to face me with a serious expression. I raise a brow at her.
“Something you’d like to say?”
“I just invited my parents for a visit, and I have no idea where they’re going to sleep.”
I tilt my head. “Can’t they just stay at a hotel?”
She sucks in a gasp, slapping a theatrical hand over her mouth in mock outrage. “Elijah Elliott! Of course they can’t! Asking my parents to stay in a hotel is the equivalent of making them sleep in the street while it rains. The aunties would never get over something so disrespectful.” She shakes her head at the thought. “Not telling them I’ve had cancer for months? Forgivable after lots of grovelling. Sleeping anywhere but under our roof? Inconceivable.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, clearly missing a piece of cultural context. “You can stay in my room, and they can stay in yours, and I’ll sleep on the sofa?”
She shakes her head. “They’ll accuse me of kicking you out of your room. That wouldn’t be worse than putting them in a hotel, but it certainly wouldn’t be better.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, amused, the corners of my lips twitching. “I can stay in a hotel then.”
Her eyeballs just about roll out of her pretty face. “In what world did you thinkthatwould be an option, given what we’ve discussed?”
I put my hands up in surrender, chuckling at her outrage. “What do you propose, then? They sleep in your room, and you and I camp out in mine?” Not that I don’t bloodylovethe idea of that.
Her eyes light up as if I’ve just had the grandest idea. “Yes! That’s perfect. We can set up an air mattress on the floor,” she says, nodding as though she’s just confirmed her own plan. Andseeing as I’m thrilled about the prospect of being that close to her, I enthusiastically agree.
We spend the rest of the evening cleaning up the last of the depression aftermath, washing all the linens, and keeping ourselves mind-numbingly busy. And it feelsgoodto do something that makes such a positive impact on our mental health.
CHAPTER
FIFTY-EIGHT
“All that’s left isthe air mattress,” I say, flicking off the bedroom light and strolling out of my room.
“Let’s get it set up then. Are you staying with me tonight or throwing a blanket over the clean linens in your room?” he asks.
“Probably the latter,” I say, not missing the way his shoulders deflate, growing more and more used to reading his body language, a task I’ve never bothered to do with anyone else without the intention of mirroring.
He stops in his doorway, throwing the door wide with the hand not clutching the crumpled piece of deflated plastic. I stride in after him, nerves crawling up my spine. I’ve never been in here before.
He flicks his gaze over his shoulder at me as he turns his lamp on, passing through the threshold, and I’m hit with the intoxicating, warm cinnamon and bergamot fragrance thatalways follows him. In here, it’s overwhelming in the best way, and I’m thankful the nausea hasn’t been an issue in several days, allowing me to appreciate the delicious, comforting aroma.
His room is painted the same light blue as mine, but our styles couldn’t be more different, and I sort of love that paradox. His mattress sits in the centre of the room on a dark wooden platform base, covered with a navy-blue comforter and matching pillowcases. A small, ancient-looking green dinosaur with a purple glittery horn in the middle of its forehead is nestled between his pillows. The walls on either side of his bed are lined with overflowing bookshelves, save for a single shelf in the middle that displays the book I’d gotten him months ago. Along the shelf’s edge are the dozens of folded Post-its I’ve been leaving him.
Elijah is unlike anyone I’ve ever known. He's patient and caring beyond measure, and his presence alone is enough to make me feel like I can handle just about anything life throws at me.
I hadn't realised it all those months ago, but while I was giving him everything I could manage in those small notes, he was meeting me where I was, never pushing for more, despite how much he may have wanted to. He started out as my flatmate, became my friend, and by just being himself, he became so much more. I’m not sure I have the right words to describe it yet because “love” doesn’t feel strong enough to describe what’s grown between us.
The folded notes on his shelf are small tokens of our relationship, and seeing how close he keeps them—that he keeps them at all—has butterflies erupting in my belly.
I run my fingers along the edge of his dresser, knowing I won’t find even a speck of dust. Images of his sisters, his mum, and who I can only assume is his nan litter the surface, their love and adoration shining through the lens.
If he’s uncomfortable with me scrutinising his things like this, he doesn’t say, allowing me to soak it all in. I find my way to the smaller bookshelf tucked into the corner by the window. My eyes light up with recognition as they land on the fifty or so colourful pottery pieces glittering on the shelves.
“You made all of these yourself?”
