Chapter Twenty-Two
Lily
I awaken to the sound of soft piano music and the smell of a fresh meadow. My eyes flutter against my closed lids. It’s so serene that I would think it was a dream. It hits me that, for only the second time in two years, I didn’t dream of Graham while I slept.
When I shift over, despite the dull ache in my head, I realize that I didn’t dream of him because I didn’t need to. He’s beside me again, and I marvel that the only other time he has escaped my dreams was the night he protected me from the storm by staying with me until it passed. Here he is, caring for me again. I’m still too weak to get up, so I allow myself a moment to take all of him in as he rests at the end of my couch, my feet stretched across his lap. If I had to guess, as the subtle glow of light frames the edges of my room-darkening curtains, it’s dawn.
Graham’s hair is slightly mussed, like he couldn’t help but run his fingers through it. His head leans back, angled toward me. His brow is relaxed with not a hint of the angst I’ve seen on him lately. His forearms are exposed, lengthening from under his now-wrinkled navy t-shirt.
In the dim light, I take the opportunity to study him. My eyes catch on each handsome feature of his face. I trace the full lips that kissed me less than thirty-six hours ago and memorize each line of the hands that have held and cared for me so well. There is a hint of a vegetable soup stain across the top of his chest. I flung my spoon toward him (truly on accident—this time), and the remnants are still evident, as if even my soup just wanted to be closer to him. I honestly don’t blame it.
Graham is exceptional. I’ve never met a man who’s just so . . . sure and steadfast. He never wavers and doesn’t make anyone feel less about themselves. He’s the type of man who—if you have him—makes you want to explain to the world that you know he’s too good to be true while also assuring them that he is everything he seems to be and more.
The only time I’ve seen his steady demeanor nearly crack was at the Regency Ball. The sight almost broke my heart all over again. I’ve been so unclear with my intentions. Sparrow tried to tell me. Even as he has existed around me and beside me these past several months, I feel so gutted that I’ve lost even more time with him. He has been right next to me, but because of my own pain, I’ve kept him at a distance.
While I’m praying that he doesn’t catch whichever virus I have, I reach over and tenderly wrap a hand around his strong forearm. There is just enough light peeking through to allow me to keep studying him and remember the things that make him so uniquely . . . him. His inquisitive mind plays out in the lines on his forehead and between his brows. His determination for justice presents itself in the clenching of his jaw. His kindness lives in his smile. His passion and love for me echo on his lips, his adoration and devotion lingering in his eyes. I’ve seen it all before, and yet, it feels so new.
The haze of sickness is still lingering at the edges of my fuzzy brain. My strength feels like it has been taken and exchanged for crystal-clear clarity. Perhaps for the first time, I think I could settle into this kind of love. Loving Graham wouldn’t lead me to become less of myself. He may soften my edges, but he also strengthens my spirit. With him, I believe I could finally allow myself to relax and rest, holding onto the man I’ve wanted all along. I don’t know why we sometimes forbid ourselves from the very things we most desire. Against all reasoning, we talk ourselves out of love. Or worse, we tell ourselves the lie that we don’t deserve it, convincing ourselves falsely that there’s something about us that will be better off by pushing love away before it pushes us to the end of ourselves.
Graham is all elegance and confidence, the perfect combination of intensity meeting restrained passion . . . except when he happens to let out that passion with me. It’s no mystery why Birch Borough has been slowly falling in love with him—why I’m in love with him. I don’t know how I ever managed to stay away from him for this long.
If I had known all it would take for me to finally recognize what my heart desires was to fall ill and allow him to take care of me, I would’ve hung out with the kids in town more often. Distributing residual Easter bunnies to the germ-infested daycare the other day is most likely where I caught the bug .
The congestion in my head and the urge to cough remind me that I’m still sick. As I shift a bit on the couch cushion, I realize how much my bones and joints are protesting from a day of being sick. It’s unfortunate to be stuck inside since we’re knee-deep in late spring, and the weather is lovely.
I feel my latent aggression looming as I contemplate what comes next. Just because I know I can love Graham again doesn’t take that part of me away. If anything, I’m more determined to use the angst deep within me to finally fight for the good things. For the right things. To fight for him.
My uncomfortable movements alert him that I’m awake. He sits up, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyes and yawning in a way that I shouldn’t find as adorable as I do.
“Sorry, honey,” he says in a sleepy voice. His piercing eyes meet mine in the inky light. “Do you need anything? How do you feel?”
Lord, help me. I am melting.
His hand moves across my shin, gently giving it a press. He seems unable to keep himself from showering me with affection now that we have a new memory of words spoken between us that are for our good and not our demise. I grin even as shyness creeps in and causes more of a blush to creep into my cheeks than usual.
“I feel like a train ran over me and then decided it was going the wrong direction and ran over me again,” I say in reply to his question.
He doesn’t flinch at my response. “I’ll get the pain reliever.”
Before he’s able to move, his phone rings. I nod for him to get it and reach behind me to switch on the lamp. The sudden flood of light causes me to wince.
“Hey, Mom,” Graham says as a smile breaks across his face.
“Hey, S’mores,” she replies.
In a panicked rush, Graham tries to take it off speakerphone, but he isn’t fast enough. He’s so going to pay for this.
“S’mores,” I whisper with a giddy surge.
“You’re on speakerphone, Mom,” he says with a tight voice, his cheeks turning a delicious shade of pink.
“I’m so sorry, S’m—I mean to say, Graham .” Her voice is so kind and warm that it triggers a sense of homesickness within me immediately.
“When I was a kid,” Graham starts to explain the nickname in a quiet tone, the edge of his face shifting in my direction, “I loved s’mores so much that my mom thought her term of endearment was amusing since my name is paired with the crackers they’re eaten on.”
“He was all sweetness and melted chocolate,” his mom says affectionately from the speaker.
I watch with delight as he hangs his head in defeat, a fresh rush of redness creeping down his neck. I’ve never seen him so embarrassed, and it’s doing weird things to my head and my stomach. Must be the sickness. Still, I can’t help but let out a delighted little laugh. His admission gives me so much ammunition.
“Who’s with you, love?”
“Oh, my . . .” His eyes widen as he searches my face. “Um. Just a . . . someone special.” He gives the slightest shake of his head, clearly frustrated to be caught off guard .
I know that his mom definitely knows who I am and how he feels—or rather felt —about me.
“Someone special? Graham David Winnings.”
Silently, I mouth his full name and start to ponder where I want to tattoo his name on some weird part of my body just to embarrass him even more.
“I’m with Lily, Mom,” he states with more assurance this time.
I twirl the end of my unkempt ponytail between my hands. Her reply is swift.
“Lily. The Lily?”
The way Graham stares at me makes me at an uncommon loss for words. I open my mouth to reply but can’t seem to speak. He switches it off speakerphone and gives me a slight nod before standing and pacing beside the couch.
“So, Mom, are you okay? What’s going on? You’re off speakerphone, by the way.”
A tightness works through my chest.
“Dinner.” His tone is incredulous as he peeks over at me. “Next Thursday.” His hand is now rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes, I know it’s soon, but with the wedding . . .” She cuts him off, and what ensues is a bunch of humming and assuring her before his eyes fully catch mine. “Okay, I’ll ask her.”
He clicks the phone over. “Mom, you’re on speaker again.”
Her voice comes through, pleasant and friendly. “Oh, good. Lily, I would love for you to attend Graham’s birthday dinner. Would you want to come?”
I just took a poorly timed sip of my water. I sputter as it chokes me. Peeking up at Graham, I see the tightness in his jaw, the subtle shifting of his head, and the light tapping of his foot. I don’t want to make things unnecessarily harder for him anymore . . . unless it’s clearly just for fun.
“I’ll be there,” I cough out.
“She’ll be there,” he repeats firmly, a hint of a smile teasing his mouth into what looks like relief.
The fact that he was worried about me refusing is enough to make me want to do better at putting action to my affection. He takes the phone off speaker again. I don’t miss the tensing of his shoulders as he sits beside me, reaching for my legs without making eye contact. His hands are warm and send comfort throughout my limbs. Who knew a tiny movement could do so much?
He looks like a throwback to the high school guys I would crush on in middle school. I use the fact that he can’t move much once I’ve trapped him with my legs across his lap to commit him to memory. And it makes me wish that we had known each other back then. High school sweethearts sound nice, but that’s not what we were. I don’t even know what we’ve been.
Still, seeing his full and brilliant smile break through as he chats with his mom, I grin. His happiness is my happiness, and his sadness is too. That realization sends me reeling.
“Yeah, Mom. She’s worth it.”
Graham’s voice pulls me back into my living room. The intensity of his gaze in my direction leaves no question that he is referring to me. He says it even when he knows what it means to wait for someone to love him back and be disappointed. They hang up, and he stands, already moving toward the hall closet .
“Pain medicine,” he says over his shoulder. “I didn’t forget. And as for my birthday dinner, Mom won’t take no for an answer.”
I nearly laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, unable to contain my joy that I have my person back. It’s one thing to have a best friend who handles your havoc, but it’s another thing when it’s a person you want to spend your life with. It means so much more when it’s the one you want to exchange vows with, and you want to commit every moment to ensuring they’re beside you for as long as earthly possible.
Oh, my lands. I want to spend the rest of my life with Graham.
The realization hits me hard as Graham walks back from the hallway. For the first time, I notice his pants, a pair of grey joggers that fit tightly across his muscular legs and stop deliciously at the bend of his ankle. I didn’t know I was attracted to ankles until right at this moment. The memory of my discomfort when he wore sweatpants before creeps into my brain. There is something about the end of his pants meeting his ankles and bare feet that causes my lingering fever to climb much more quickly than medically possible.
“I need you to cover your feet.” I sit up and wince, shielding my eyes from that area of his body. “And your ankles too.”
I’m looking at the wall, but I can see him slowing his stride, those bare feet creeping closer.
“Lily, I hear you say a lot of things, and mostly, I understand your language, but this one has me stumped.”
Cautiously, he moves closer to the couch, medicine in hand. The sight of his approaching feet again sends another flash of heat blazing through me. I’m actually sweating now.
“Don’t come any closer! Put on some socks!” I scrunch my nose.
“Do I smell? I can’t smell. My feet never smell,” he states, as if he’s not human.
“Ha!” I laugh in an unhinged way then clasp my hand over my mouth as I remember that my throat still feels sore. I also continue to have an unfortunately clear view of his ankles.
Let the record show that I will forever blame the fever for my reaction. I feel my nose scrunch again as I fan my face, silently willing him to sit so those ankles and feet will be out of sight. I also miss touching him, and I’ll be able to reach him from the couch cushion.
“Lils, are you attracted to my feet?” Finally, Graham sits. I ignore his question, thinking I’m out of danger, until I look over to see his foot propped up on his knee, like a sitting figure four.
“Not your feet!”
His smirk is maddening. He actually has the audacity to smirk at me in my distress.
“Your ankles,” I mutter.
“My what?”
“You heard me.”
He laughs, a rich reverberation filled with depth and a hint of spice—basically, a chai latte wrapped up in a sound. “Of all the things, this is what’s doing it for you?”
Proudly, he assesses his shapely ankles. The medicine is held out to me in his palm.
“It’s the fever,” I protest, greedily grabbing the pills from his hand and taking them with the huge glass of water he put beside me. I didn’t even think I owned a cup this big, but he has managed to find a vat to hold water in. I’ll never be dehydrated again. “So, what happens now?”
Looking at me thoughtfully, he runs a hand through his hair. The top is so startlingly unruly for him that I feel proud, knowing what it means for me to see him like this, slightly unpolished and disheveled.
“And where did you get those pants?” I pause to breathe because I’m still stuck at the mental bus stop of inexplicable feelings. I’ve seen him in something other than dress pants only three times before today. Three! Once when we went to the carnival in our pre-challenge era (what I’m affectionately calling the time before he showed up in Birch Borough), once for the storm in our modern-day challenge era, and once at In the Ring. This makes the fourth.
“I own them,” he states without explanation. “And I think that what happens next is that we are . . .” he trails off, reaching for my hand. We meet in the middle of the couch, my fingers intertwining with his, my palm vibrating with the thrill of it. “This. I think that we are this .”
Nodding, I lean my head onto the cushion, focusing on the warmth I find in his eyes. We’re this . And I want this.
“I also think . . .” he begins, reaching for the remote. Turning on the TV, I watch in delight as he navigates to my recorded programming and clicks on my favorite show. “I’ll make you more soup when you want it. I’ll get you hot tea and cold ice cream, depending on what you want to soothe your throat, and I’ll sit here and suffer through this mayhem.” Though he says it with a straight face, his eyes narrow as he scrolls down the list of episodes as if he’s searching for a specific one .
Satisfied with a selection, he leans back, his frame melting into the back of the couch, his hand still in mine. The theme music for The Man is a Rake plays through the air, and tears brim in my eyes.
“You watch this show?”
He swings his head toward me dramatically. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You picked an episode,” I insist, using our clasped hands to point toward the screen. “You know this show.”
“I plead the fifth.”
“You picked the one with the rake who reformed and left city life to go after his girl in a small town. It’s us! You. Watch. This. Show.”
He laughs, its perfection coating the air between me and catapulting a smile onto my face. Being sick bites, but being sick with Graham? Not bad at all.
“Oh, also, I forgot to ask,” I continue. “Are you going to be sick because you’ve been with me all day? Do you have to leave?”
In another dramatic gesture (which he seems to be full of today, and I’m enjoying way too much), he grunts and reaches for my legs as if they’re too far out of reach. Catching the hint, I scoot closer and swing my legs up until they are tucked across his lap. My head rests on his shoulder.
His strong hands—their heat creeping through my own pair of sweats—are the best warmers I’ve ever experienced in my life. Instantly, I settle in, nestling into his neck.
“I think that’s as close as you can get,” he says with a smile in his voice.
“I’m testing that theory,” I reply, my eyelids already heavy with sleep .
He answers my earlier question. “No, I won’t get sick because I took a bunch of immunity shots already, and I don’t think my body will let me go down. I want to take care of you too much.”
“That’s sweet,” I manage. His kindness finally settles into my system, allowing me to fully feel his presence as our synchronized heartbeats get reacquainted with each other.
His voice continues softly in my ear. “And no. I don’t want to leave. If I had my way, I’d never be out of your sight again—even if my ankles must be.”
I grin and curl my free arm up to my chest, the other still safely entwined with his. The sounds of the TV dim, even as the beat of his heart becomes stronger. I feel him nuzzle into the top of my head, his lips lightly kissing my forehead.
“Sleep, honey. I’ve got you.”
And I know he does. It’s why I know that, even in my fevered state, there will be no nightmares tonight.