Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98305 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
A cough travels from the great room, spurring me into action. I curve around his bed and step into his bathroom—only momentarily waylaid by the size of the damn thing. I’ve been in here before, during the apartment tour with Rebecca, but I’d forgotten how nice it is. That soaking tub is what dreams are made of.
Remembering my mission, I head to the medicine cabinet near his sink.
The first thing I see when I open it is a box of condoms. They’re right at eye level and impossible to miss.
I blush like a schoolgirl and move them aside.
Of course Walt would have condoms, I tell myself. What’s the big deal?
The big deal. Big deal. Big.
Okay, moving on.
I fan my face as I search for some medicine to take the edge off his fever. Once I find a rattling bottle of Tylenol, I shut the cabinet and scurry out.
He’s right where I left him on the couch, only now he’s awake.
“Why are you blushing?” he asks as I shake out two pills and pass them to him along with his water.
“I’m not.”
He swallows the pills, then he looks up at me with discerning eyes.
“Your cheeks are red. Are you not feeling well either?”
“I’m fine. Swear. Soup should be ready in a minute,” I promise on my way back into the kitchen.
After fanning my face with the freezer door, I ladle soup into a bowl and set it on a tray along with some slices of baguette. Walt sits up as I bring his food into the great room. I set everything out on the coffee table, and he looks at it carefully but doesn’t make a move to pick up his spoon.
Steam rises from the soup. Maybe he’s worried it’s too hot.
“Give it a second and it’ll cool down.”
Still, he doesn’t say anything.
“Are you not hungry? You should make yourself eat a few bites at least. You’ll start to feel worse if you don’t eat.”
“Thank you,” he says, sounding so deeply sincere that it makes me uncomfortable.
“Oh.” I wave away his gratitude, trying to lessen what I’ve done. “It’s nothing. Literally just tossed some stuff into a pot and left it to simmer.”
I step back to leave him to it, but he frowns. “Stay. Won’t you?”
“Why?”
He shrugs. “There’s something about being alone when you’re sick.”
I nod, knowing what he means. “All right. Let me get some soup for myself and I’ll be back.”
We eat sitting side by side on the couch, flipping through TV channels.
“What do you like to watch?” I ask him.
“I don’t watch a lot of TV. I like true crime documentaries though.”
“Oh me too. There’s a new one on Netflix I’ve been meaning to watch. Let’s start that.”
We don’t move from that couch the rest of the evening. We devour episode after episode of the series, following the mystery like shrewd detectives, claiming to have solved the case only to be shocked by some unexpected twist.
“Just one more,” Walt says after another episode ends.
“Let me make some popcorn. Want some?”
He shakes his head and moves to lie down. By the time I get back, he’s taking up most of the couch.
“Are you serious?”
“I’m sick,” he points out, sounding silly and childish.
“At least switch around so I get your head and not your feet. Sheesh.”
He does as I ask, shifting the pillow so it’s resting right by my hip. He lies down, and I settle back into my spot with my legs crisscrossed and my popcorn resting in my lap.
“Ready?” I ask him, picking up the remote.
“Ready.”
I press play and start eating my snack. Thirty minutes into the episode, I glance over to find Walt lying on his side with his eyes closed. I’m not sure when he dozed off. Frankly, I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did. I pause the show and set my popcorn aside. I’m about to stand when his hand reaches out to touch my thigh. His grip is gentle, his way of asking me to stay, I think. I freeze right where I am and his hand doesn’t move from where it sits, just above my knee. He hangs on to me as his breathing steadies out. He’s asleep again now, his lips slightly parted, his face as tranquil as I’ve ever seen it. I trace his full eyebrow with my gaze, drifting down along his cheekbone and lips. I drink him in with unfettered access, surprised by how indulgent it feels to study him without his knowledge.
After a while, I consider getting up, but then I remember how miserable he looked earlier, how tired he must have been, and I stay right where I am, letting him use me like a toddler would use a lovey. I let my head rest against the back of the couch and close my eyes. It’s the last thing I remember doing until the sensation of being lifted stirs me awake.