Page 30 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
He frowned. “How did you get up here?”
“Bribed the doorman.”
“Taking after your brother?”
“Well, when you can learn from the best… Are you going to let me in?”
“Can I stop you?”
That earned him a look. “Probably not. I can’t believe you didn’t call me.”
With a bemused expression, he stepped back, opening the door wider. I gave him a regal nod and went in. I’d gone to the hospital to visit him only to find he’d checked out against the doctor’s advice. Against my advice, which he hadn’t bothered to ask for. Whatever this crap was about needing time and space…well, he could have all he wanted once he’d healed. He cared about me. I knew that in my soul. And for now he needed someone to take care of him. I’d damned well earned the right to do it.
I set the stuffed paper bag down on the kitchen island and began taking things out. A large container of chicken soup with dumplings. Little cups of jello and yogurt. Some instant oatmeal he could make on the fly. He followed me and leaned against the wall.
“You know my teeth didn’t get knocked out in the accident, right?”
“I see you get sarcastic when you’re in pain. I can deal with that.”
His eyes narrowed. “Didn’t I ask you to leave me alone?”
Aim and fire. My heart skipped a beat. Of course he’d be surly. I’d known the emotional gauntlet I was walking into here, but it still hurt to hear.
“And I did,” I said evenly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you starve. Unless you have some other ex who’s going to make you dinner?”
He rolled his eyes. “You know there’s no one but you.”
I sucked in a breath. Even when he was trying to be mean, he was the sweetest man I’d ever known. It broke my heart that he felt he needed to push me away. I still didn’t totally understand why. I wanted to push for an answer, but not right now. He held himself rigid, his hands tucked in his underarms as if he were holding himself up that way. A thin film of sweat beaded on his forehead, betraying the strain it took just to remain upright.
“When are you due for your pain medicine?”
He raised his shoulder in a shrug. Then winced and lowered his shoulder more slowly.
“Come on. Time to lie down.”
I approached him, ready to coax or persuade or coerce him into doing just that. He surprised me by slinging an arm over my shoulder and leaning on me so heavily my weak knees almost buckled. He must have been worse off than I’d realized. We limped past the neat, spare living room into the neat, spare bedroom.
The dark sheets were rumpled now, instead of neatly made like the day he’d invited me over. He must have done so in anticipation of my arrival, of that chocolate torte seduction, and the care he’d taken for me broke my heart all over again. He slumped onto the bed without ceremony, sprawled awkwardly until I gently tugged him straight by each limb and pulled the sheets up around him.
I found the little orange bottles beside the sink, knocked askew. The white labels were faded and ink-stained from having been soggy, then slowly drying. I imagined him dumping them, hurriedly opening them and swallowing them down with water from the tap, no time or energy to even grab a glass. Firming my lips, I deciphered the instructions and brought him a fresh dosage.
He was already half-asleep when I returned. I nudged him awake, knowing he’d sleep more easily with the pain medicine in his system. He blinked up at me blearily, and I pushed the cup of water into his hand.
Slowly, painfully, he propped himself on one elbow and swallowed down the pills. The water sloshed to the side as his hand trembled. I took the glass and set it on the side table.
His eyes went shut, and his body sank back onto the pillows. My heart throbbed to see him in so much pain. Whatever came of us, I was glad I could be here to help in small ways. The only thing worse than watching him in pain was imagining him struggling alone.
I started to head back into the kitchen.
“Why did you come back?” he murmured.
My heart ached. I returned to his side, sitting on the edge of the bed. I flashed back to the hospital, to the edge of the thin, poorly padded bed where he’d once told me to go away.
“I couldn’t have stayed away,” I said, feeling sad and rueful all at once.
“Shouldn’t have come,” he mumbled. “Missed you.”
I’d missed him like crazy too. And worried about him, whether he was healing okay, whether my brother was hassling him. Part of me had hoped he’d open the door and smile. He’d reach for me, and I’d rush into his arms. But that was a dream. This was real. The mix of hospital smell and the musky aroma of a man who hadn’t showered anytime today or even yesterday. Him telling me I shouldn’t be here even when he clearly needed somebody. And telling me he missed me because he wasn’t lucid enough to stop himself.
