Chapter 29
29
OLIVIA
I just had the strangest dream.
Tuck was here. Taking care of me for some reason. Maybe because I slipped and hurt myself? But why wouldn’t Summer be here to do that? Maybe she had to travel for a violin competition or something.
Anyway, Tuck was here. Taking care of me. That should sound more like a nightmare, right? But it wasn’t. He was caring, and gentle, and sweet. It felt good. He fed me soup. Homemade. His grandma’s secret recipe. It was delicious.
Why’s it so hard to sit up? Or even to open my eyes?
Am I on the couch? I’m able to crack my eyes open just a bit, and through the narrow slice of vision, I recognize the pattern of my blanket. On the back of my head is the familiar sensation of my pillow. Why would I have taken my blanket and pillow downstairs and slept on the couch?
“Are you up?”
A weak kind of surprise hits me, like I’m somehow not strong enough to feel as much surprise as I should at hearing Tuck’s voice.
I know it’s not a dream. He’s really here? Why?
Then I realize it when I summon my strength to try and sit up. Aches pang all over me, my muscles tired and sore. A shiver rushes through me. I feel a wave of discomfort and weakness, and I give up the thought of trying to move at all.
At least I can open my eyes wider and turn my head to the source of the sound to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Sure enough, Tuck sits in the chair next to the couch. My eyebrows scrunch when I notice he’s holding a copy of Emma .
Tuck McCoy in my living room reading Jane Austen while I’m just stirring from being passed out on the couch. Am I sure this isn’t still a dream?
Then I realize none of it was. I remember coming down with a cold Sunday night, waking up feeling like death Monday morning. Summer even wanted to stay home from the concert Hudson was going to take her to, but I put my foot down and demanded she go.
Did Summer or Hudson text Tuck to have him come over and take care of me?
And he did it? How long has he been sitting there?
My chest squeezes at the thought, a light and almost giddy feeling humming through me. If I had more strength, I’d clamp down on the feeling and chase it away, because it’s not something I should be feeling where Tuck is concerned.
But I don’t have the strength to do it, so I let the feeling buoy inside me.
My stomach growls. Maybe some more of Tuck’s homemade chicken soup will give me strength. It must be a loud growl, because Tuck’s lips curl into a grin and he asks, “Hungry?”
I dip my chin in a shallow nod. “More of your grandma’s chicken soup?” I ask.
Tuck tilts his head, an amused expression carving on his features. Then he just shakes his head and pushes up from the chair. “You got it. Grandma Campbell’s recipe coming right up.”
I lose a couple minutes sinking back into sleep before Tuck’s by my side, nudging me awake and holding a bowl as he kneels next to me. He ladles the soup into my mouth, feeding me. It’s an intimate feeling, and now there’s another surge of a cozy, comfortable emotion thrumming in my chest.
He feeds me about a third of the bowl before I’m full. I’m summoning the strength to tell him that I’ll be okay, that I can take care of myself, that he should go home and do whatever he needs to do instead of wasting his day here with me.
But before I can open my mouth, I’m asleep again.
The next time my eyelids flutter open, it’s dark except for the soft light of a lamp on the other side of the living room. Tuck’s moved, sitting on the chair closest to the lamp, still reading Emma . He’s about halfway through.
“What time is it?” My throat feels tight and dry as the words croak out.
Tuck looks up from the book. “Little past eight-thirty.”
“You should go home.”
“No way.” Tuck’s response is immediate. His tone tells me there’s no point in trying to argue with him, even if I had the energy to do so.
“Where will you sleep?”
He shrugs. “The chair.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t sleep on a chair.”
“You continue to underestimate me, Lockley,” he says, his drawl wryly playful. “I assure you that sleeping on a chair is well within my skill set. You’ll be very impressed.”
I huff out as much of a laugh as my strength allows. “I’m sure you’re capable of it. I mean I don’t want to make you do that. It’ll be uncomfortable.”
He shakes his head. “Nah. This chair is nice. Trust me, I’ve slept on much more uncomfortable bus seats during long trips to away games. I’ll sleep like a baby in this chair.”
I let my eyes fall closed, but I don’t feel myself falling asleep. I could probably do with staying awake for a little while. How many hours have I been passed out for, anyway?
I nod to the TV. “Wanna watch something?” I ask Tuck.
“Yeah, if you want to,” he answers, a flash of eagerness in his blue eyes.
A smile lifts my mouth. “How about picking up where we left off on The Office?”
I know it’s a dangerous game to even hint at anything that happened when we shared that hotel room in New Hampshire. I guess I’m sick enough that my inhibitions have taken a big hit.
And I did really enjoy watching the show with him, the night before That Morning. Since I got back to Cedar Shade, a couple times I’ve really been in the mood to keep watching it. Even pulled up the next episode that we’d left off on. But each time, I just couldn’t click the button to start it.
Remembering watching it lying under the covers with Tuck, laughing together and yapping about it between episodes, and then thinking of watching it alone … it just made me feel cold, made a hollow feeling pang in my chest.
I curl my legs, freeing a couch cushion for him. Again, probably not a smart move. Inviting Tuck to sit next to me to watch something that’s going to remind both of us of that hotel room we shared.
But there’s that lowered inhibition again.
Even though my muscles are weak, there’s one at the height of my thighs that’s strong enough to pull at the feeling of Tuck’s weight settling onto the cushion at the other end of the couch.
Tuck grabs the remote. The fact that he instantly remembers the exact episode we left off on makes my chest twinge in a way I can’t quite describe.
My laughs might be quiet and short as we’re watching thanks to my exhausted state, but I still enjoy it. I’m energized enough to groan and ask, “Are they really going to make us wait the whole damn season for Jim and Pam to happen?” while the credits roll.
Tuck chuckles. “Imagine they make us wait, like, two seasons. Or three. Or more.”
I gasp. “They couldn’t.”
“Wanna watch another?” Tuck asks.
I yawn, but I nod. “Yeah. One more.”
During the episode, my eyelids start to feel heavier and heavier. Sleep is tightening its grip around me.
I suddenly realize that at some point, I stretched out my legs, and they’re over Tuck’s lap. At this point, I don’t even have the strength to care. I just accept it. My legs are on Tuck’s lap, resting on his muscular thighs. Oh, well.
When the episode ends, I let my eyelids fall shut like they’ve been wanting to do for the last ten minutes. I don’t fall immediately asleep, though. I just relax, letting my mind clear, letting all my muscles slacken, feeling nothing but exhaustion, and enjoying the respite from feeling as shitty as I did earlier.
“Olivia?” Tuck asks, gently. “You awake?”
I am. But I’m too tired to answer.
Tuck waits a couple beats, then tries again. “Olivia? Hey, Olivia, you awake?” His voice is louder, more prodding this time, like he’s really checking to see if I’m asleep.
Again, I’m not, but I don’t make a peep.
He places his hand on my knee and shakes it gently. The spark that shoots up from where his hand contacts me, racing straight to my center, definitely confirms to me that I’m awake—but I still don’t make a sound. I’ll be asleep in a matter of seconds, anyway, so what’s the point?
Tuck lets out a long, heavy sigh. “Olivia.” He says my name, but he’s not talking to me. He says it like an exhale, like a plea, like a lament. “Shit, I wish you’d give us a chance.”
My breath catches in my chest. He thinks I’m asleep. He thinks I can’t hear him.
I should stir, cough, do something to let him know I’m awake. Something to keep from overhearing what I’m clearly not supposed to overhear, even if he is talking about me.
But I don’t.
“I know you think I’m some rich, playboy asshole.” He lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Maybe I am. Or was. Not that I’ve been with a girl since I fucking met you …”
He hasn’t been with a girl … since we met?
But that was months ago. With Tuck’s reputation, he’s not the kind of guy to go even days without a hookup.
“I just wish like hell you’d give me the chance to show you that I’m not looking for a hookup. Not looking for a temporary thing. What am I looking for?” There’s another heavy sigh. “Fuck if I know. I’ve never wanted anything from a relationship but a short, good time. But this? This is different. I don’t have enough experience even thinking about what I want out of a relationship. But I know I want a hell of a lot more with you than I’ve ever wanted with anyone else.”
Do I still think that that’s all Tuck wants? Is that the reason I’m still scared to let anything happen between us? Or is it something else now?
Maybe I’m not afraid that he cares too little anymore. Maybe I’m afraid that he cares too much. Maybe I’m afraid that he can make me care about him that much, too. Maybe I’m afraid that’s already happened …
“Well, what else can I do?” Tuck continues. “Sure as hell can’t get you off my mind. Sure as hell don’t want to. I’d rather keep waiting for you than be with anyone else.”
Tuck’s words echo loudly in my head as sleep finally pulls me under.