“See you soon, Party Animal.”
“Bye, JJ-I-can’t-tell-you-my-real-name-or-I’d-have-to-kill-you.”
I hear him laughing as I end the call, and the sound is wonderful.
The front door opening wakes me, and I roll over, hoping he’ll know to find me in here. And he does, his arms full of brown paper bags.
“Wow,” I say, looking up at him. “Did you leave food for anyone else?”
“How the hell can you see in here?”
“Light is evil,” I groan, pulling the blankets up higher.
“I’m going to put this stuff in your kitchen. Iwillturn the light on in there, so be prepared.”
“What did you bring me?” I call out.
“You’ll see soon,” he calls back.
From where I am, I can see out my door and partly into the kitchen. The light flicks on, and I watch as he moves back and forth, pulling things from the bags and putting them on the counter. It feels domestic, and very… comforting. To have someone here taking care of me, rather than me being the one to take care of them—which is what I always do. It’s not a problem, and I’m not complaining, it’s just nice for the roles to be switched for once.
JJ comes into the bedroom with a glass in his hand.
“Sit up,” he says as he sits on the edge of the bed. He gives me the glass once I’m up and resting against the headboard. “When did you last take meds?”
“Little while before you called.” I sniff the glass. “What is this?”
“Electrolytes. Lots of them.”
I sip it. The clear liquid has a raspberry flavor. I drink it just slow enough that it doesn’t hurt my stomach or make me want to throw up. He takes the glass when it’s empty, but his gaze stays on me.
“I was just kidding, you know. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” I say.
“Were you actually kidding, or are you just saying that because you feel weird about asking me to stay?”
“Well, I didn’t really ask. I sort of—”
“If I didn’t want to be here, Miles, I wouldn’t be.”
I give him a small smile. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Get some sleep.” He rests his hand on my thigh, over the blanket. “I’m going to make dinner.”
“You’re cooking?” I gasp.
He gets to his feet. “Why is that shocking?”
“Uh… actually, I don’t know. I guess I just thought you’d grab pizza or something.”
“I hate pizza.” He moves toward the door, but stops, pointing to the dirty sheets. “Did you throw up?”
“No,” I say. “Thank God. They’re just sweaty—and smell bad.”
“Do you have a washing machine?”
“Yes, but you donot,and I seriously mean this, need to do my laundry.”
“Of course I don’t need to.” He gathers it all up, looking at me over his shoulder from the doorway. “But I’m going to do it, anyway.”
