“Jesus.” He walks over and digs into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. “You would die without me.”
I try not to flinch at that. “I was busy, okay? I’ve been working on a book chapter, and it’s kicking my ass. Then I went outside to get some fresh air and found your fuck-ass friend’s birds have shit all over my yard and got into my trash again.”
Easton at least has the courtesy to look ashamed as he digs into his wallet to find what I need. “Ah.”
“Anyway, by the time I got back into the kitchen to eat something, I realized I’d gone through all the leftovers you threw in my freezer, and I had nothing else.”
He stops halfway to handing me my card. “Wait. I haven’t brought over meals in almost a week. When’s the last time you ate something?”
I don’t want to answer him because I think the truth is yesterday. I finished off the last of the frozen meals two days ago, and I had a banana that was just on the verge of going bad and two packets of instant oatmeal at some point before bed. But my injury also scrambled my hunger cues, so they’re harder to recognize.
And stress always steals my appetite. Easton knows that my struggle with writing and understanding words is hard for me, but I don’t think he gets just how bad it feels to not be able to do the one thing I used to be so fucking good at.
But there’s no point in hiding my guilt over not taking care of myself. It’s on my face before I can try and disguise it. “Easton, I’mfine?—”
“Go fucking sit down. I swear togod, Leo…” He mumbles something else I don’t catch as he spins on his heel and marches out of the room.
I’m left with no choice but to sit since he didn’t hand over the damn card, and I hope Teddy isn’t downstairs waiting on me because I have a feeling this is going to take a while.
Leaning back, I close my eyes and let out a heavy breath. I hate how tired I am all the time. The fatigue with the brain fog and the way my brain struggles to make sense of letters makes me wonder if I’m still trying to be an author because I’m stubborn, or because I actually love it.
I’ve never liked being told no.
I’ve never liked being told I can’t.
After Liam, I wanted to defy death. To become Orpheus and barter with Hades himself and be the one who succeeded in bringing my spouse back to life.
I would have pulled Liam from heaven and made him live out the rest of his miserable life on earth and not felt a moment of regret over it simply to prove that I could.
And maybe that is my problem, because I’ve finally reached the point in the grief cycle where I’m allowing myself to remember that our marriage wasn’t perfect. In fact, it was on the edge of falling apart.
“Are you asleep?”
I force my eyes open and fight off a yawn. “No.” Easton’s holding a massive container of something that looks like spaghetti with some kind of white sauce. It’s steaming like it’s molten hot, and it smells delicious.
Whoever cooks for these guys—whoever keeps sending food home with Easton to make sure that I get something in my stomach when I forget that eating is a thing—is a damn saint.
“I hope I’m not stealing anyone’s food,” I say as I take the container.
He rolls his eyes. “You know any of the guys would happily give up their food for you.”
So yes. The answer is yes, I am stealing, but I’m too hungry to care. Now that there’s food in front of me, my body’s reminding me that I need to feed it, so I dig the fork in andimmediately sear the roof of my mouth as I shovel in the first bite.
But the pain is so worth it. Just outside of the burn is savory, cheesy, bacony deliciousness that I could never, ever hope to replicate at home. My specialties include oatmeal from packets, peanut butter and jam sandwiches, and, if I’m feeling very frisky, scrambled eggs with mushrooms and cheese.
“Can you run downstairs?” I say, trying to swallow past the slightly overcooked pasta.
Easton frowns. “What? Why?”
“Teddy said he was going to give me a ride to the supermarket, and I don’t want him waiting on me forever. Just let him know I’m getting something in my stomach, and I’ll be down as fast as I can.”
Easton sighs. “I can go to the store for you tomorrow.”
“East, I have moldy bread and sour milk. And that’s it. I’m trying to be more responsible here, okay? And I’m perfectly capable of walking supermarket aisles.”
His face softens. “Yeah, okay. I just feel bad that I’m so busy all the time, while you can’t just drive yourself to the store. I can ask Camilo if?—”
“Stop.” His jaw snaps shut, and he looks chastised, which is hilarious on my older brother. But he’s always had a habit of doing whatever people tell him to do. “You’re not my parent, okay? And I might have a mess up here—” I tap my temple with the fork and immediately regret it as I smear a bit of sauce into my hair. “—but I’m still a functional adult.”
