Page 30 of Love What's Left
TheIf Onlygame sucks ass.
“Sydney,” I say quietly, hoping not to frighten her.
Her eyelashes don’t flutter. Her slow breaths don’t change.
I speak a little louder. “Sunshine, can you wake up?”
Nothing.
She told me not to touch her earlier, but sudden irrational terror overrides that order. Two days shouldn’t be enough to cause refeeding syndrome. The nurse would have told me if we’d reentered the danger zone, not encouraged her to eat.
But she was already weak. Is this a coma? I cup her shoulders and give a small shake. “Sydney, wake up.”
Her eyes fly open, and shehissesat me like an angry cat.
I take my hands away and straighten. Try to calm my racing heart. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Dinner is ready. Would you like to eat in here or the kitchen?”
She pushes herself to sit, too much white still showing in her widened eyes, the wild mass of her hair a knotted cloud around her head.
I want my wife back.
But this feral creature in our bedismy wife. It’s not fair to grieve her when she’s sitting right in front of me.
“Do you want me to bring dinner in here or eat in the kitchen?” I repeat.
“Kitchen.” Her voice is different than it used to be, the tone lower and hoarser, her words stilted.
I back away and wait for her to clamber unassisted from the bed. She heads for the bathroom, then returns a few minutes later, her hair still unbrushed, though her haircare products sit in the same place on the counter where I put them for her to use more than a week ago. I open the bedroom door and usher her into the hallway, then walk beside her to the kitchen. “The dietician said pizza isn’t a great idea yet. But we’ll have it as soon as we get the green light. She chewed me out for the sandwiches and cake. Do you feel sick? Light-headed? Nauseous? Headache?”
She narrows her eyes. “No. And she can pry the choc . . . chocolate from my cold, dead hands.”
A surprised bark of laughter erupts from my chest, the humor out of proportion to her comment. But hearing a hint of the old Sydney pumps metaphorical helium through my veins. “I’ll let you tell her that.”
When we reach the kitchen, I pull out a chair for her at the same table where we ate lunch. She frowns at the place setting with the oversized bowl of soup. “That’s a lot of f-food.”
I nod, and, after seeing her settled in her chair, sit down directly beside her, rather than across from her. “Since you want me to eat first, I thought we could share dishes this time. You’re still a little shaky to handle soup on your own, but it should be easier on your system. Is that okay with you?”
Her gaze flies from the bowl to my eyes, her expression pleased. “I like this.”
Thank God.
“Why do you make that face?” she asks.
I wasn’t aware my face had shown my feelings. I shake my head slightly. “We used to share food a lot. When we first got to know each other, I thought I was flirting when I stole a bite off your plate.”
Humor laces my tone. “The first time I did it, you responded by moving half of the contents of my plate onto yours. Then you looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘How do you like that, dickhead?’”
She watches me, listening intently.
I shrug. “It turned into a thing we did. I’d steal some small thing from you, then you’d take back the same amount plus interest. It drove my siblings insane the way we ate from each other’s plates constantly. It deeply offended Henry’s sense of fairness.”
She frowns. “We fought a lot?”
I swallow, unwilling to go down a road that has no simple answer. “That’s not what I meant. I’d never leave you with less food. Sometimes, you didn’twait for me to steal something. You stuck a french fry on my plate once and took half my chicken wings in exchange.”
“Rude. Your brother was right.”
I shake my head. “I loved it, and you knew it. I always ordered extra, so I could fill your plate.”
