Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty Seven
Erica
The pill goes down with a sip of water that I have to help him with.
He doesn’t complain. Of course he doesn’t. He just takes it, lets his head fall back against the recliner, and closes his one good eye like he can will his body into cooperating.
He needs food.
All I have is the roast. I stare toward the kitchen, suddenly unsure.
I turn and head that way, no other choice.
The roast is still in the pan where I left it, still pretty hot. The mashed potatoes are still in the bowl, lid on, ice cold.
I scoop some of the potatoes into a pan and rewarm it gently because, despite everything that’s happened tonight, I still want them to be good and not goopy.
At least everything is soft.
Potatoes. Carrots. Slices of roast cut thin enough that he won’t have to work his jaw too hard. The thought of him chewing makes my stomach tighten, so I keep it simple.
I take a scoop of mashed potatoes and spread it across the plate, place the roast slices in the middle, and lay the carrots around it, then pour some of the gravy I made from the drippings on top.
I look at it. It’s how I pictured serving it when he got back. I even looked up some pictures online to see the prettiest way to present the roast.
Well, he won’t see it, but at least it won’t go to waste.
I grab a fork and carry them both back to the living area.
Nico is exactly where I left him. Reclined, towel still around his waist, one eye swollen shut, the other half-lidded. The compress is on his jaw. The cold pack is near his eye.
Neither is probably hot or cold anymore. I make a note to get him new ones.
He opens his good eye when he hears me.
“Come sit,” he says.
I stop short.
“No,” I say, because I’m not doing this again. “You’re hurt. I’m going to put this down, and you’re going to—”
“Sit,” he repeats, and even with his jaw stiff and his voice rough, it’s still him. Still a command.
I glare at him.
He looks back like he can out-stubborn me while half broken.
“It makes me feel better,” he says.
And that does it.
I sigh and set the plate on the side table carefully, then step in close and ease myself down across his lap like I’m defusing a bomb. Trying not to jostle anything.
His arm comes around me immediately.
“Happy?” I mutter.
“Yes,” he says, like it’s obvious.
I grab the plate again and balance it the best I can.
“You’re going to eat,” I tell him.
He makes a sound that could be agreement or not.
I don’t care.
I scoop up a small bite—potato first, because it’s the safest—and bring it toward his mouth.
“Open,” I say softly.
He does without arguing.
Thank God.
He chews slowly, testing, and I watch his throat work like I’m waiting for him to wince.
He doesn’t.
When he swallows, he exhales through his nose, and the tension in my shoulders drops a fraction.
I bring another bite with a carrot this time.
Then, finally, a sliver of roast.
His eyes close for a second as he chews, and for half a heartbeat, it looks like relief.
“Mm, what is that?” he asks. “Roast?”
He opens his good eye and focuses on the plate, seeing it for the first time.
“Yes,” I say.
He looks up at me.
“Where did you get roast?” he asks.
I pause, because the answer feels surreal even to me.
“I made it,” I say.
His gaze sharpens, even if it’s only one eye.
“You made roast?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say again, feeling a bit uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
He doesn’t blink.
“You made dinner?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You came here and made dinner?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, a little more defensively, because he’s staring at me like I grew a second head. “I came here. And I made dinner. Are you all right?”
His mouth twitches like he wants to smile, and his face won’t fully cooperate.
“I’m fine,” he says, and it comes out rough, clipped around his jaw. “I’m just… processing.”
“Processing,” I repeat, flat.
He lifts his good hand a little, palm up, like he’s presenting evidence in court.
“You,” he says slowly, voice still gravel. “In my house. In my kitchen. Cooking.”
“I didn’t set anything on fire or anything,” I say, still defensive.
That gets him. A short huff of a laugh that turns into a wince.
I glare at him, feeling awkward.
I knew it was a bad idea. And now he’s laughing at me. Feeling ridiculous and stupid, I scoop up another bite.
“Just eat,” I bite out. “I can find something else if you don’t want this.”
“Why would I want something else?” he asks.
“Because this was obviously a bad idea. A really, really stupid idea,” I say.
I try to climb out of his lap with the plate, but his arm around me stops me. It irritates me that, even as injured as he is, he can still manage that.
“It wasn’t a bad idea,” he says, and his voice goes soft. “Erica. Look at me.”
I don’t want to.
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.
“Erica,” he says again.
I finally turn my head, but I keep my eyes on the curve of his shoulder instead of his face.
“It was not a stupid idea,” he repeats. “It’s just… unexpected."
Unexpected. I stare at the curve of his shoulder, where the muscle is still tense even under a layer of bruising. That’s the story of my life with him. Unexpected texts. Unexpected visits. Unexpected danger showing up at the door. And me, making an unexpected dinner.
“Okay,” I mumble, still not looking at him. “Are you going to eat more, or are we just going to keep talking about how I overstepped?”
He doesn’t say anything for a second.
I risk a glance at him.
His one good eye is pinned on me, and there’s something in it I don’t recognize. Something soft and heavy at the same time. It makes my chest feel tight.
“Erica,” he says, and his name for me is always different. Always something more than just letters.
“What?” I say, my voice smaller than I want it to be.
“I’m trying to think of a word that isn’t ‘perfect’,” he says, “because that’s too simple. And I’m trying to think of a way to tell you that no one has ever… done this. For me.”
My breath hitches.
“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t lie to make me feel better. I'm supposed to be taking care of you."
“I’m not lying,” he says, and his voice is so quiet it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. “I don’t do that. Not with you.”
His thumb traces a slow line over my hip, right over the terrycloth of the robe.
"I forgot you were coming," he says. "After... this. All I wanted to do was come home, hose myself down, throw some alcohol on my cuts, down a couple pills, and pass out."
I swallow, my throat suddenly tight.
"Instead, I open the door, and you’re here," he says. "With a home-cooked meal. That doesn’t happen to me. I've never had that before."
"What?" I mumble sarcastically. "A home-cooked meal?"
"This," he says. "Right here. All of it."
I finally force myself to look directly at him.
"You saw me and didn’t run.”
“Why would I run?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Because people run,” he says simply. “They run from… this."
He gestures vaguely at his own face, at the swelling and the cut and the bruises.
"My life. My family. All of it. They don't stick around to wash rat droppings out of my hair and tend to my wounds and feed me. They don't want to see the ugly parts.”
My heart cracks right down the middle.
I think about all the times I’ve been scared. Scared of the things he represents. Scared of the danger that seems to orbit him like a moon. And I think about all the times I’ve wanted to run, but didn’t.
Because underneath all of it, there’s this. A man who doesn’t expect kindness, who doesn’t know what to do with it when it’s offered.
I feel a surge of something so fierce it makes my chest ache. A tear escapes before I can stop it, sliding down my cheek and landing on my chest.
His fingers come up to my face, thumb catching the next one before it can fall.
“Don’t,” he says. “You’ll make me feel worse.”
"Don't say things like that," I say, my voice choked. "Don't act like you're some monster."
"I'm not," he says. "But I'm not a saint either."
"Nobody's a saint," I snap, but it has no heat. "You think I am?"
"You're close," he says, and it's so unexpected it makes a laugh bubble up in my chest, but it comes out wet and shaky. "Especially now."
Another tear escapes.
"Erica," he says gently.
I don't answer. I just sniffle and wipe at my face with the back of my hand like a child.
"Hey," he says, and his voice is a little stronger this time. "None of that. This isn't sad."
"It is sad," I say, and my voice trembles.
"No, it's not," he says, and he shifts, trying to sit up straighter. He winces, a sharp, hissing breath that he tries to hide, but I hear it. "It’s… good."
I shake my head, not understanding.
"Before you," he says, and he has to pause and swallow like even talking about it hurts. "I didn't have this. I had a house. I had things. But I didn't have… this."
His thumb sweeps over my cheek again, wiping away another tear I didn't realize had fallen.
"You're here," he says, like that's the whole explanation.
He shifts underneath me, and I know it must hurt, but he doesn't make a sound. He wraps his arm tighter around me, pulling me in closer, and I feel the solid warmth of him through the thin terry cloth of the robe. I can feel his heart beating against mine.
"I'm not letting you leave," he says, his words slurring just a little. "You're stuck here."
I guess that pill is finally kicking in.
"Eat some more," I say. "Before that pill puts you to sleep."
"I'm not tired," he says, even as I watch him blink, his good eye slow and heavy. But he opens his mouth anyway, and I feed him another bite, then another, until half the plate is gone.
He's definitely feeling it now. His body is starting to go lax against me, his arm loose around my waist.
"Okay," I say, setting the plate aside. "That's enough for now."
He makes a soft noise of protest, but it’s weak.
"Do you want to go up to your bed?" I ask.
"No," he murmurs. "Here. With you."
He’s already leaning his head back against the recliner, his eyes closed. His breathing is starting to even out, deep and slow. He looks exhausted. He looks like he's been fighting for his life.
Because he has.
I stare at him, at the angry swelling around his eye, the dark bruises on his jaw, the faint purple already spreading down his neck toward his collarbones.
I was right. It is going to look worse tomorrow.
I get up as carefully as I can, trying not to jostle him too much, and grab a blanket from the back of the sofa. I unfold it and drape it over him, tucking it gently around his shoulders. He doesn't stir.
Then I pick up the plate and the water glass and carry them to the kitchen. I put the leftovers away, rinse the dishes, and wipe down the counters until everything is exactly as it was before I got here.
Then I go back to him.
He’s still asleep, but he’s shifted a little, turning his head toward the back of the chair. The blanket has slipped down, exposing the worst of the bruising on his ribs. It’s a brutal, ugly mosaic of purple and black, a stark reminder of what he did, or what was done to him.
I curl up on the sofa closest to him and watch him sleep. I can’t help it. Usually, he looks the same when he sleeps. His expression hard. But tonight, he looks different. Softer. Vulnerable.
My anger, the sharp, protective thing that rose up in me when I first saw him, has faded into something else. A deep, aching sadness for him. For the life he lives that leads to this. For the fact that he thinks it’s normal.
I think about him saying no one has ever done this for him. That people run. And I wonder if he’s right. I wonder if anyone has ever looked at him and seen past the dangerous exterior to the man underneath. A man who comes home beaten and bruised and just wants to pass out alone.
The thought is so lonely it makes my chest hurt.
I want to fix it. I want to erase every bruise, every cut, every painful memory that put that look on his face. But I can’t. All I can do is sit here and watch him sleep, and be here when he wakes up.
So that’s what I do.