“The coleslaw is done,” I say. “Mayonnaise-based. Sitting in a dead cooler all day. That’s a food poisoning container, Mickey. If you’d eaten that...”
“I didn’t eat it.”
“Because you couldn’t reach it! Which is the only reason you didn’t get sick on top of everything else. I swear to God...”
“Benji. It’s okay. The brisket is fine. The ribs are fine. Smoked meat sits out at barbecue competitions for hours. You’ve been to Tex’s bar.”
He’s talking me down the way a cop talks someone off a ledge, calm and steady, and I can feel myself teetering betweenthe meltdown I already had and the second one that’s right behind it. He’s right, the meat is fine, I know the meat is fine, but the coleslaw is ruined and Sheila packed it with love for him. The waste of it feels like a small stupid tragedy on top of the big one.
“We’re never telling Sheila about the coleslaw,” I say.
“Agreed.”
“If that woman finds out her coleslaw went bad because nobody helped you eat it, she will drive to this hospital and she will burn it to the ground.”
“Also agreed.”
“This is a pact, Mickey. A binding pact. The coleslaw died with dignity and we will honor its memory in silence.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. I’m still standing there with tears drying on my face and a container of spoiled coleslaw in my hand and he grins at me. I toss the coleslaw in the trash, open the brisket, find a fork, and hand it to him.
“I’m sorry, I should’ve made sure all this was refrigerated before I left last night. I thought the ice packs would keep everything cold until lunch. I screwed up. This is my fault.”
“Benji, stop apologizing. I’m able to speak you know. I could’ve asked them to do that too. You’re the one thing keeping me going. Don’t blame yourself for every little thing. It’s not a big deal. Calm down and eat with me.”
“No, I can’t. I’m too wound up. The good news is that Dante lands tomorrow morning. He’s renting a car and drivingto my rental. He’ll take over the vendors and the logistics, then I can focus on the ceremony layout.”
“That is very good news. You need the help.”
“I really do. I’m fighting with florists and chasing driftwood and my ribs still hurt when I breathe too deep. I look terrible and I can’t stop coming here. I know it doesn’t make sense. But I can’t stop because this room is the only place in my entire day where I feel like myself.”
The words come out before I can catch them, fast and unfiltered and probably too honest. He’s watching me blurt out the truth and I can’t take it back.
“This room is where you feel like yourself?” he asks. “Here with me?”
“Yeah. I know that doesn’t make sense.”
“I’m glad you feel that way.” He doesn’t say more than that.
“I want to bring Dante to meet you,” I say. “If that’s okay with you. I want him to see why I’ve been coming here every day to see you.”
“Bring him,” he says. “I’d like to meet the guy who’s been keeping you alive for the past seven years.”
When he finishes eating, I grab the cream. He watches me pump cream into my palm without comment. I let my hands stay on his skin longer than the cream requires because cream stopped being the reason about three visits ago.
Then I lift the blanket to do his feet. This cream was designed for cheekbones and delicate skin under celebrityeyes. I’m using it on the cracked heels of a cop in a hospital bed, and his feet are worth every penny of it.
I’d sit at these feet any day.
Hell, I’d kneel at these feet.
I’d buy overpriced cream for the rest of my life if it meant taking care of the man attached to them. I move up his calf and realize somewhere along the way this stopped being guilt.
He’s watching me. The tears don’t come tonight. His face is open instead, his eyes locked on mine while my hands move over his skin. We stay like that until I finish and pull the blanket back into place.
Neither of us says a word.
Then the nurse knocks as always. “Sorry, visiting hours are over,” she says from the doorway.
