Chapter 19 #2
Leo’s there at the window in his borrowed wheelchair with a cup of what smells like freshly brewed coffee.
“Did you make that?” I ask as he stares at me, wide-eyed and almost concerned. My gaze moves to his neck, and I see a little bruise there, which is most definitely my fault.
“There’s more in the pot if you want some.”
I’m normally not a coffee guy, but today calls for it.
I slept like the dead, but my limbs feel all heavy and achy the way I usually get after a rough, late-night call.
Rolling my shoulders back, I steal another glance at him, then move into the kitchen, where I find the coffeepot at the very edge of the counter.
It must have been a giant pain in the ass for him to make himself something, and now I feel like a massive dickhead because I’m supposed to be taking care of him, and instead, I slept for half the morning.
“Breakfast?” I call as I reach for a mug.
“I’m not really a breakfast guy,” he calls back.
“That’s why you weigh ninety pounds soaking wet. And I’m not body-shaming you,” I add quickly. “You need more protein.”
“You sound like Easton.” I turn to find him sitting in the doorway, his eyes narrowed in a scowl.
“We both know what we’re talking about.” I flex my bicep, and his lips part just slightly before he licks them and turns away. It gives me a huge rush to know that I affect him this way. Sipping on the still-hot coffee, I grimace at the bitter flavor.
I’m a too-many-creams-and-sugars guy, but I don’t have it in me to dress it up fancy, so I pull open the fridge, and my heart sinks.
Fuck.
I was supposed to go to the grocery store so I could meal prep a mountain of food for Leo yesterday, but instead, I took a nap like a loser, and now he’s going to starve to death. I am the worst caregiver in the world.
Leo lets out a quiet whistle. “Your fridge is almost as bad as mine. Aren’t you the station chef?”
“Fuck off, judgy,” I groan. “All the food I buy goes there. I was going to shop yesterday, but, uh…I got distracted.”
He reaches out and lays a tender hand over the back of mine. “It’s fine. I don’t need much.”
“You need more than you let yourself have.” Pulling away, I set my mug on the counter. “I have time to shop. You want to come with or stay here?”
He pulls a face. “Would it complicate things if I tagged along? I feel like I’m going to lose it if I can’t get out, but I don’t want to make things harder on you.”
My entire body goes soft for him, and I lean down, bracing myself on his shoulder with one hand and lifting his chin with the other. I’ve never been bold like this. Not ever. But with him, it feels so natural.
My lips meet his in a soft, quiet kiss, and then I knock my forehead against his. “I don’t care if it’s complicated. If you want to get out, I’m getting you out.”
He says nothing for a long moment, even after I pull back. I start to feel a little self-conscious, so I grab the mug and walk it to the sink before he clears his throat and speaks.
“I always wondered what it would be like if you were nice to me. I watched you be so kind to other people, and I know I didn’t exactly deserve it—”
“Stop.” The word tumbles from my lips, and I turn back to face him. “We’re doing a clean slate, okay? We were fools in the past, but we’re done with that now. Agreed?”
His eyes are bright as they meet mine, and a bit of tension melts away from his shoulders. “Agreed.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but for the moment, I’m willing to run on hope.
Going to the store isn’t as complicated as Leo was afraid of. His pain seems a lot less today, and he doesn’t wince when he slides his feet into the footrests. He navigates with the chair with some ease as I grab a cart, and we begin to peruse the aisles.
“What do you like?” I ask as I pause in the aisle to grab a packet of gnocchi and jars of tomato sauce.
Leo shrugs. “I’m easy. Just make whatever you like.”
I turn and give him a look. “I’m cooking for you, remember.”
He pulls a face. “Yeah, but—”
“This isn’t prison, Leo. You’re not going to just eat whatever you’re being served. Let me spoil you a little.”
His cheeks go ruddy, and he rolls to a stop. “I get that. I’m not trying to be a martyr or whatever. But when it’s something I can’t contribute to, it feels wrong to be picky.”
“I don’t mind picky, but also, if you want to learn how to cook, I can teach you.”
He grimaces. “I might be a hopeless case. You tasted that pasta I tried to make you.”
It takes every ounce of my self-control not to make a face. “It was fine.”
“Okay, what we’re not going to do here is lie,” he scolds. Something about that tone does it for me. I shiver and fight the urge to bite my lip. “I know it was trash, and you ate it to be nice.”
“I’ve had worse?” I try.
His eyes narrow in a glare.
“Fine, it was horrible, and I choked it down because I didn’t want you to feel bad. But if you want to learn to cook, I can teach you.”
He’s quiet for a beat, then bursts into laughter. “That’s sweet, but I don’t want you beating yourself up when I’m nothing but a giant failure.”
Rolling my eyes, I push the cart past him and jerk my head for him to follow.
“No one is hopeless. And the first time you make something that tastes good, it’ll give you the confidence to keep going.
I had to learn the hard way. I was feeding three young girls on a budget of five bucks a month, whatever my mom didn’t sell of our food stamps, and dumpster diving behind the grocery store.
If I can make that work, you can learn to cook some pasta. ”
It takes me too long to realize that it’s quiet behind me. I turn and find him several paces away, staring. He catches up a moment later, then clears his throat as I add some coconut cream to the cart.
“North?”
“Mm?”
“Did you say dumpster diving?”
My entire body goes hot. Shit. I did not mean to say that out loud.
“There, ah—there was this distribution center not too far from where we were living.” My voice sounds hollow, and I feel myself start to dissociate a little bit.
It’s like floating above my body and listening to someone else tell this story.
“They would throw out huge boxes of food that got returned for damage or stuff that was just barely expired. Most of it was like…I don’t know, mac and cheese, canned veggies, crackers…
” My voice starts to shake. “Anyway, is it okay if we don’t talk about this right now? ”
There’s a warm touch on my wrist, and I look down to see he’s pushed himself up next to me. “I’m sorry.”
Something in me tightens with anger. “I don’t want your pity—”
“I’m sorry I brought it up in public,” he clarifies. “What you went through is shit, and I do feel bad, but I don’t pity you. Trust me, there’s nothing I hate more.”
I manage something like a smile and take a deep, cleansing breath, hoping to will away the dark cloud that settled between us. “Okay. So, back to a menu you can handle. If you could pick anything at all…”
He bites his lip to hide a grin, and suddenly, the mood is light again. “Carbonara.”
Laughing, I turn the cart, heading for the refrigerated section. “I know the perfect recipe that even you can handle.”
“You have a lot of faith in me,” he says.
I glance over my shoulder and meet his gaze. “Yeah. I do.”