Chapter 15 Love Me Back
LOVE ME BACK
MAX MCNOWN
OWEN
I think I’m dying.
And not in an I haven’t kissed Brooke in a few hours kind of dying. No, this is an I don’t care how fancy-schmancy that Atlanta chef was, something in his sushi was bad level of demise.
And it is bad.
So. So. So. Bad.
Brooke makes an unholy noise in the bathroom, groans, and starts to cry.
I wish I could help her. Really I do. But though this Tink of ours is tiny, I don’t think I could take the few steps from where my body’s draped across the mini-kitchen table to save my wife in that horrific bathroom.
I don’t know when in this neverending night I managed to crawl onto this bench, but the idea of dragging myself off now is inconceivable.
“Owen,” she moans, barely louder than a whisper.
I grunt. The only sound I’m capable of while my insides slowly and catastrophically twist into a pretzel.
“Water…” she cries.
Shoot, now I really have to help her. I try to slide off the table with as little jostling of my body as possible, knocking our orchid off its perch in the process.
It lands with a loud thud, and if it was my body, Brooke wouldn’t be able to save me anyways as she—by the sounds of it—is indisposed. Again.
I press my face against the fake hardwood, hoping it’ll feel cooler there than the stifling, non-airconditioned atmosphere that is our current prison up above.
The orchid, laying on its side, is a mirror image of my body.
Pathetic and unable to move. We’ll both meet our end here. On this moist, warm floor.
A gurgling in my stomach urges me to inchworm forward. My wife needs me… or… needs water… and I won’t let her suffer alone.
“Water…” she cries again.
I do want to give her water, but I’m also going to need to switch places with her. Very soon. So the urgency in which my broken body slumps across the floor kicks up a notch.
“I’m… I’m getting it,” I answer but don’t think she’s heard me over the sound of her retching.
There’s a real fear now that I’m not going to make it into that bathroom.
“No…” Brooke’s sobs louder than the last few requests. “No… O… I need…” Retch. Liquids slosh. I adore that woman, but I’m horrified. “Please. Turn. On… the water.”
“Seriously?!”
“Plll… please…” She throws up again.
While I’m annoyed that she’s embarrassed right now, I also wish I felt well enough to burst through that door like a hero and save her from her suffering. As it is, I need a receptacle. Immediately.
Our kitchen trash can is tucked inside a small cabinet that I can’t reach, so I grab our poor, dying orchid, separate it from the fancy pot it lives in, and lose the contents of my stomach inside.
When I think I’m strong enough to lift my body, I place the pot on the counter—because what else am I gonna do with it?
—then turn on the kitchen faucet, saving my wife from her unfounded humiliation.
After five minutes or an hour passes—hard to be sure when you’re slowly making your way through kitchen containers—the door to the bathroom opens slowly.
I take it as the sign that I can shut off our water, barely managing to do so, then do a semi-crawl to the bathroom. A remarkable feat, considering I had surgery on half of my body just over six weeks ago. My physical therapist will be so proud of me. If I survive the night.
Brooke’s curled over the toilet, head resting on her arms, but manages to peel her pale face away to greet me. “Welcome.” Her shaky lips smile halfheartedly. “I’ll never eat sushi again.”
I don’t even want to think that word again. I slip into the doorframe, running my free hand up and down Brooke’s sweaty back. “What can I do?”
She murmurs something incoherent, but the tears are unmistakable.
“Love,” I say, but I have to temper my movement. The battle in my gut seems far from over. “I’m right here.”
Brooke turns, slumping over and putting her head in my lap. “It’s so hot. But…”
She burps.
I dry heave. Marriage is beautiful.
“I’m cold, too.”
My sallow hand rubs her dark hair, a shocking color contrast even in the dim light of our camper. “Would a shower help?”
She nods slowly.
“Alright. I need you to sit up.”
The dimensions of this bathroom are an engineering marvel.
If I push Brooke far enough to the corner of the room—if you could call it that—she’ll be sitting just below the sink, which can be folded up for more space.
This might just allow my body to fit, folded in half and knees pulled as close to my chest as possible.
I could turn on the shower and leave Brooke alone, but now that she’s permitted me to join her, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
Also, more pragmatically, moving is hard, so she’s stuck with me.
Nudging her with as much one-handed strength as I can muster, I make sure Brooke’s settled before situating myself.
“What’s with the plant?” she asks in a small, sad voice.
I look around, then down at the orchid apparently still in the crook of my arm.
“Oh, this guy?” Setting it on the small ledge intended for shower supplies, I sit back down and turn on the hot water, letting it rain down on Brooke and me.
She’s dressed in a baggy shirt and shorts to sleep in, and I’ve got on a pair of basketball shorts.
But when the hot water hits my skin, I could care less that we’re clothed and soaked.
“We’ve been through some stuff. We’re battle brothers. ”
“That plant looks like I feel,” she mutters, staring at the sad flower just outside the shower spray. “Bet you're thankful for running water now, huh?”
“Hmmm,” I hum my agreement. “Yeah, the running water has really helped all the liquids leaving our bodies for the last five hours. I especially love how I was able to vomit in our kitchen and sweat through my shorts at the same time.”
Brooke’s face somehow goes more green. “O… don’t say vom…” She can’t even get the word out before burping again.
“Sorry.” I grimace and take her hand in mind, resting it on the tile floor. “So… is this how you imagined showering with me would be?”
“It definitely could be better.”
I don't even try to hide my smirk. This is the first semblance of happiness I've felt since I woke up to intense cramping and Brooke running to our bathroom hours ago.
“So you have thought about it…”
“You’re…” She groans again, clearly not in the mood for banter, and fans her face. “It’s so hot.”
It is hot in here, but the heat from the water is providing the first moments of relief I’ve felt in hours.
I’m hopeful we’re seeing the other side of this thing, though when we’re done here, I’ll be asking for electrolytes.
We were given an emergency walkie talkie to be used in situations like this.
I don’t want a bout of food poisoning to send us home, but I also want to make sure Brooke gets whatever she needs to fully recover.
“Just a few more minutes and we'll dry off, call for reinforcements, and try to get some sleep.”
“Okay.” Brooke rests her head against the shower wall, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths.
I do the same, playing with the ring on her finger and praying we’ve seen the worst of the night.
I open the bathroom door and stretch my legs, figuring we’ll have plenty of stuff to clean in the morning so a little water won’t hurt anything.
After a few minutes, she slides down the length of the wall, curling so that her body spoons the toilet, but her head rests in my lap.
“Owen?” Her voice is small and exhausted, but she does sound more like herself.
I think the shower might be helping. And, I’m not gonna lie, I feel a warm sense of satisfaction knowing I fought the elements—with no air conditioning, a bum arm, and food poisoning—to care for the woman I love.
“Yeah, Babe?” My fingers tangle in her mop of wet hair. She all but purrs, leaning into my touch. How often has this woman felt the addictive buzz of fingertips brushing through her hair? Of being cared for in the simplest, but most profoundly satisfying of ways?
Every day, Brooke pampers and makes women feel beautiful with a simple haircut.
I’ve seen how, in a single conversation, her clients walk away with renewed confidence, feeling seen or listened to, simply by sitting in her chair and placing their trust in her.
It's the same way I feel when I look up into the stands at a game and see her there, hand on her belly, telling me she loves me without even knowing it.
Slipping the rubber band I find from around her wrist, I use what little energy I have left to gather her hair up in a loose, wet bun like I’ve seen her do so many times. Her eyes are closed, and I bet she’d fall asleep right here with the hot water pouring down on us both, if I let her.
With Brooke lying in my lap, fragile but finally and fully trusting me to take care of her, it’s easy to imagine what the rest of our life will look like.
Easy getting lost in a fever dream of possibilities.
Late nights and early mornings spent loving her well, in every way.
Full days doing everything and nothing, at all, but together.
I want to brush my fingers through her hair every night as she falls asleep, hoping and praying for another day with the privilege to do so.
I see laughter and friendship and Brooke’s belly swollen over and over again with our babies.
Traveling and exploring and growing. Taking care of one another when we’re sick and when life is hard.
Celebrating when it’s good. So much of the life we’ve already lived together but with a permanence Brooke may not have known could exist but will never doubt again.
I see love. A lifetime of love.
“It’s Day Twenty-Five,” she whispers, unaware of the way my heart’s beating faster, fighting harder than ever not to spell every one of my thoughts out to her—that I’m in love with her and always have been. When I don’t say anything, she turns so that her face is lifted to mine. “Ask me.”