“Are you sure? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in bed?” He ushers me further into the house, only letting go of me long enough to shut the door.
I nod, too tired and nauseous to speak. The energy to answer the door is more than my body had.
We move. He doesn’t know where to go, so I nod to the opening just ahead to the left. He guides me, making sure to go slow, and I melt. He’s so sweet as he moves me to the couch and I move toward the far end that has the pillow I’d been using and my blanket. Jefferson eases me down onto the cushion, then sits down beside me.
My chest tightens, but not from sickness this time. I watch as he sets the bag down on the coffee table and pulls out his phone, his hands moving across the screen. Once he’s done, he sets it down on the wood beside the bag.
He turns back toward me, and he posture relaxes. “You should lie down,” he says gently.
I nod, too tired to argue. “Yeah… I was doing that. Before you came knocking, waking me up.”
His mouth quirks at the corner. “You’re lucky I did. You need to eat, and soup is on the way.”
“Soup?” I question.
“Yep, it should be here in like fifteen to twenty minutes.”
I half-smile, angling my body so I can lie back down and cover up. The cushions feel like clouds compared to my body. I close my eyes, not even caring that he’s still here, that he’s seeing me like this.
“Where’s your kitchen?” he asks in a whisper.
“Across the room, through the dining room to the right.” I gesture toward the direction, knowing this house like the back of my hand, not even opening my eyes once.
I hear the rustle of the bag, and the echo of his steps moving away from me. A few minutes later I hear him coming just before I feel a weight on my forehead. A hand, cool and comforting. His.
“You’re burning up,” he says quietly.
“No shit,” I mumble. “Can you tell Death to come back later?”
He chuckles.
“I’ll tell him you’re on a break and to go annoy some other poor unfortunate soul.”
I nod, half-smiling. He takes hold of my legs, lifting them in the air before sitting down, the weight of the couch dipping lightly, before he places his hands on my feet and begins to rub them.
Holy hell, I’ve died and gone to Heaven.
Jefferson
He’s finally sleeping, his soft snores drifting through the room. I made sure he took his medicine and ate some of the soup. He didn’t finish it, but I wasn’t expecting him to. There was enough in the container for a few meals and with him telling me he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday, anything he’s able to keep down is a blessing.
I gently lift his legs, angling my body so I can slip out from under them, before gently placing them back down. Removing the compress from his head, I carry it with me along with his bowl of soup to the kitchen.
Now that he’s asleep and comfortable, I plan to do a little snooping. Bradley’s open about his life, but there’s more I want to know. He’s like an obsession that I can’t break free from. While my heart still aches for Malcolm, until he’s free from his restraints, we can’t move forward. Bradley is a love interest that hit me fast and hard, and I’m ready to explore.
Placing the soup in the refrigerator, I pull out the container of Chinese food, then open the cabinet, take out a plate, place somecombination Kow on it and warm it in the microwave. Bradley had insisted I eat when he did, but I blew him off.
While it heats up, I step over to the table and pick up the mail I saw earlier. One by one I go through them until I see one from the bank that catches my eye.
It’s open, so it’s not a federal offence if I take a peek at what's inside. I just need to know if it’s what I need or not.
Bingo!
My lips stay pressed together as I read the contents. Swallowing at the amount he needs to raise. Realization dawns on me why he’s working so hard. It’s why I think he’s sick. His body is physically exhausted as well as mentally. From taking care of his grandmother through her illness, putting his life on hold, to trying to save the last little piece he has left of his family.
The microwave beeps, cutting through the quiet of the room. I step over and open the door. The wave of heat and the aroma of chicken and steamed vegetables hit me right in the face as my stomach growls loudly. I pull the plate out carefully, fingertips dancing around the edges of the hot ceramic as steam rises, and set it on the counter. Bending over, I blow on the food, cooling it slightly before I dare take my first bite.
Then I do. It’s good. Really good.
