Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75474 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
I’m so busy having a pity party for him that I almost miss a good sign. His body is rejecting the contaminated food quickly. It means his system is working properly and he’ll recover faster, something my father’s home nurse taught me.
“The quicker you throw up, the faster you’ll feel better.”
His body reacts accordingly. “Uhh, shut up.”
I bite down on my lip to stave off the giggles and take my hand back. “Don’t stop that,” he pleads in a low, weak voice. “Don’t ever stop please…” I go back to sifting my fingers through his hair and he exhales roughly.
An hour later I’ve managed to move him to his bedroom. “I’ll help you change your shirt.”
“Dresser. Bottom left drawer,” he grunts.
Turned on his side, he hangs onto the edge of the bed for dear mercy with a couple of clean buckets below him. His expression is a portrait in misery.
I approach the bed holding a clean T-shirt and he sits up, then hunches over. Slowly, I take the hem of his shirt, damp with sweat, and pull it over his head. Jordan is such a singular, self-contained unit that it feels unnatural to be in control. He’s letting me do anything I want without argument, and for a man with so much pride, I’m sure that’s hard.
I smooth the T-shirt into place, my palm coasting down the curve of his back, and he sighs. There’s a water bottle and Pedialyte on his nightstand, a pack of wet wipes. He’s set up for the night––I’ve seen to that––but he looks so miserable I can’t make myself leave. He isn’t exactly pushing me out the door either.
Once again it makes me wonder if Jordan is lonely. I’ve already established he doesn’t have many friends. I know his work keeps him busy, and he has tons of relationships through work. But those relationships are based on a transaction, something in exchange. He’s never mentioned any woman he’s dating. What about friendship? What about love?
Who would’ve taken care of him if I hadn’t been here? The thought of him being here sick and alone hurts my heart.
From where I’m standing on the side of his bed, my eyes follow the natural path to the black and white picture.
“That’s Lainey and Eli…in the picture?”
He’s back to lying on his side again. His eyes blink open. He gives it a quick glance and nods. “The weekend they got married.”
“Were you the best man?”
“I gave the bride away. Her father had passed.”
More crumbs. I tuck them into the back of my mind to examine later, compare them to all the others I’ve collected, and piece the story together.
“You were really close.”
It’s more of a statement than a question. I guess what I really want to ask is if he was in love with her, but I don’t have the guts for that.
He nods once and closes his eyes again. Crawling onto his bed, I lay down behind him and brush my hand across his back. He doesn’t stir and doesn’t ask me to leave. Just the opposite, he sighs like the weight of the world has been lifted off his shoulders.
“Jordan?”
“Mmm.”
“Do you feel better?”
“Keep touching me.”
Fortune favors the brave, I remind myself. At the club, he asked about love and I gave him a coward’s answer. “I’m gonna stay here tonight.”
“Mmm.”
“Tell me if you need anything. Wake me if you feel worse.”
“Come closer,” he murmurs in that deep voice of his that gets inside of me and stirs up trouble.
My hand stalls. Then, slowly, ever so slowly, I move closer, close enough that I can brush my fingers over his back and through his hair. He shivers and sighs, and settles into me.
Twenty minutes later, caught between dreams of him and the reality of sleeping next to my boss, the same man I’m falling in love with, I hear a whispered, “Thanks, baby.”
But it’s late, and I’m tired, and I’m half asleep. I must’ve imagined it, I tell myself. I’m fairly certain I did.
Days roll by, fall nipping at summer’s heels with no sign of Eli. Jordan is beginning to worry in earnest now. I can see it now and again when he plays with Maisie. Like Eli is in the room with us––a specter haunting us.
“Eli?” I ask when he walks into the kitchen tugging on the dark tie that matches his dark shirt and pants. It’s past nine p.m. and he looks tired.
Tired but…good. Dare I say he looks happy? He definitely looks more settled lately. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I’d like to think Maisie and I had something to do with it. That we helped smooth out all the rough spots and sharp edges in his life.
“Nothing,” he tells me. Grabbing a beer out of the fridge, he takes a seat at the counter and watches me cook like I’m the greatest show on earth.