The thought was so ridiculous I almost laughed. Except it didn’t feel ridiculous. It felt necessary.
When I went back out to my SUV, Marco had managed to get the door open but was clearly trying to figure out the physics of getting himself out without landing face-first on the sidewalk.
“I’ve got you,” I said again, and it was starting to sound like a mantra.
This time, he didn’t argue. Just let me help him out, take his weight, and guide him slowly up the front walk and into the house.
His reaction when he saw the living room setup was immediate.
“Étienne. What did you do?”
“Made you comfortable. You’re going to be down here for a while.”
“You brought a pillow down from my bed?" Marco's voice had gone slightly higher. His eyes fixed on it like I’d brought down something incriminating instead of just a pillow.
“Yeah? You don’t have one down here.”
“You didn’t—” He stopped himself, jaw working. “It’s fine. Thanks.”
But it clearly wasn’t fine. Something about the pillow hadthrown him off balance, though I couldn’t figure out what. It was just a pillow from his bed.
I let it go. Whatever was bothering him, he’d tell me if it mattered.
Or not. Marco didn’t exactly excel at sharing.
“I can manage the stairs?—”
“Sure. And you could also fall down them and break something else, and then where would we be?” I steered him toward the couch, helped him ease down onto the cushions. “Just accept it. You’re stuck down here, and I’m going to take care of you.”
“You don’t have to?—”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to.” I propped his booted foot up on the pile of throw pillows I’d arranged, making sure it was elevated properly. “Now stop arguing with me.”
He watched me move around the living room, his expression unreadable. I could feel his eyes on me as I got him water, organized his pill bottles on the side table according to the schedule the hospital had given us, wrapped an ice pack in a towel and carefully positioned it around his boot.
I stood there for a second, hands in my pockets, feeling oddly… useful. It had been a while since someone actually needed me for something. Since I’d felt like I mattered beyond what I could do on the ice.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said finally.
“Yep.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“Nope.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Sure can. You’re still not going to.” I settled onto the couch beside him, close enough that our hips touched. “You broke your foot just five hours ago. You’re on serious pain meds. You’re not taking care of anything except healing.”
He opened his mouth to protest again, but I cut him off.
“Marco. Let me do this. You helped me. I’ll help you.”
Some of his stubborn independence gave way to exhaustion and pain, and maybe—just maybe—relief that he didn’t have to do this alone.
“Okay,” he said quietly.
“Good.” I grabbed the prescription bottles, reading labels. “You need to take the pain med in four hours. The anti-inflammatory is with food only.”
