27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Seven
S kye
I’ve never been good with people, so when the pandemic hit, I was thrilled to work from home. My shyness, my anxiety, and my word vomit, to name a few of my odd traits, aren’t so obvious when people only see me via work teleconferencing.
I thought I was over all that with Thrax, but as I pull him down the hallway, his large hand warm in mine, I feel trembly inside. Although I’ve been planning this surprise for days, now I’m worried that it won’t play out the way I’d hoped.
“Where are we going?” Thrax asks, his deep voice tinged with curiosity.
I push my worries away and flash him a cocky grin over my shoulder. “You’ll see.”
We stop in front of the vacant hospital room next door to his. Thrax’s eyebrows shoot up as I usher him inside.
“I don’t understand,” he says, his eyes scanning the room that contains nothing but the standard-issue bed and nightstand.
“We’re here for this,” I explain, moving toward the hospital bed. “Help me unlock the wheels? ”
Thrax complies. His strong hands easily maneuver the bed as we release the wheel locks. Together, we roll it into the hallway and toward his room. I can’t help but giggle at the absurdity of it all—two grown adults sneaking around, pushing a hospital bed like mischievous kids.
“Skye,” Thrax says, his voice is half scold, half excitement. “What exactly are we doing?”
“You’re smart. You’re bound to figure it out sooner or later,” I reply cryptically, enjoying the puzzled look on his face.
We enter his room, and I direct him to move the nightstand and chair. We push his bed to clear enough space to roll the second bed right up next to his, creating one large surface.
Thrax stands back, surveying our handiwork. His brow furrows, and I can almost see the gears turning in his head. Finally, he gathers the courage to ask, “What… what are we going to do in this big bed?”
I turn to face him, ready to explain, when I notice the growing bulge in his pants. Oh. Oh no. My cheeks flush as I realize the implication of my innocent surprise. Thrax’s expression is a mixture of scandalized shock and poorly concealed excitement.
“Oh God, Thrax, I’m so sorry,” I stammer, mortification washing over me. “I didn’t mean to imply… Our clothes are staying on for the night, I promise. This is just for comfort while we watch TV.” I point to the TV attached to the wall facing the two beds.
Relief and something that might be disappointment flicker across his face. “TV? I’ve been wanting to see what’s hidden in the box.”
I nod, grateful for the change of subject. “Yes, but first, we need snacks. Come on.”
Taking his hand and snagging the lovely flowers he picked—and recalling how sweetly he handed them to me, like a boy at his first prom—I lead him to the cafeteria. The night staff gives us curious looks as we enter, but I ignore them, heading straight for the snack area. I grab two packages of microwave popcorn and a huge bowl.
Just as I’m about to place the first package in the microwave, I look at the packaging and notice it expired months ago. I toss it in the trash, much to Thrax’s chagrin.
“That was food, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And you threw it away? Is food so plentiful in your time that you can waste it?”
After a short discussion on preservatives, I explain the concept of expiration dates. I conclude with, “So, since it might have gone bad, we’ll use a newer package.”
He’s still cogitating on that when I say, “Okay. Time for your first lesson in modern cooking.”
I guide him to the microwave, explaining its function as simply as I can. “It uses invisible waves to heat food quickly,” I tell him, demonstrating how to open the door and place the popcorn package inside.
Thrax watches with wide-eyed fascination as I punch in the time and start the machine. When the first kernels begin to pop, he jumps back, startled.
“It’s okay,” I reassure him, laughing softly. “That’s supposed to happen.”
As the popping intensifies, Thrax’s expression morphs from surprise to wonder. “This is… cooking?” he asks incredulously. “But there’s no fire, no heat!”
I nod, enjoying his amazement. “Welcome to the 21st century,” I tease. “It’s perfectly safe. All you need to remember is not to put any metal inside the machine.”
When the popping slows, I open the microwave and carefully remove the steaming bag. The rich, buttery smell fills the air, and Thrax inhales deeply .
“It smells delicious,” he admits, peering curiously at the bag. “There’s food inside the bag?”
I show him how to carefully open the bag and pour the popcorn into the bowl without getting burned. His face lights up as he takes in the fluffy white kernels, steam still rising from them.
“Can I?” he asks, reaching for a piece.
“Of course,” I encourage. “But be careful, it’s hot.”
Thrax pops a kernel into his mouth, and his eyes widen in delight. “It’s wonderful!” he exclaims, reaching for more.
Laughing, I swat his hand away playfully. “Save some for the show!”
One of the staff found a water carafe at my request, and I set the flowers into it, doing my best to display them properly.
I talk Thrax through popping the second bag and get a kick out of watching him. He looks so proud that if I wasn’t in a hurry to watch the movie, I’d find the theme to Rocky on my phone and play it as he triumphantly pours the popcorn into the bowl.
We grab drinks and make our way back to his room, giggling like children as we try to avoid spilling popcorn kernels as we speed down the corridor. Once inside, I turn to Thrax.
“Okay, shoes off,” I instruct. “We want to be comfortable.”
Thrax doesn’t need to be told twice. He practically sighs with relief as he kicks off his shoes. “I will never understand why people in your time wear such uncomfortable footwear,” he grumbles good-naturedly.
I slip off my own shoes and climb onto the makeshift double bed, patting the space next to me. “Come on, get comfortable. We’re about to watch something special.”
Thrax hesitates for a moment before joining me on the bed. He moves carefully, as if afraid he might break something. I can’t help but smile at the contrast between his massive frame and his gentle movements .
“Relax,” I tell him, scooting closer. “This is supposed to be fun.”
He nods, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he settles in beside me. I reach for the remote and turn on the TV. It takes me a few moments to set up screen mirroring, and the adaptor to my laptop that will connect to an earbud so he’ll get the Latin translation. All the while, Thrax looks hungrily between me and the popcorn.
“Go ahead, you can munch away.” Then I make my best attempt at an announcer’s voice as I say, “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats as the show is about to begin.”
After pressing play, the opening scenes of Groundhog Day begin to roll. I watch Thrax’s face carefully, noting every flicker of emotion that crosses his features as he munches handfuls of popcorn.
As the movie progresses, Thrax becomes more and more engrossed. He gasps at the concept of repeating the same day, nods approvingly at Phil’s initial confusion about what’s happening to him, and even chuckles at some of the dialogue. His reactions are so pure and genuine that I can’t help but watch him more than the screen.
During a quieter moment, he turns to me, his eyes shining with emotion. “This is… incredible,” he says softly. “A man trapped in time, like me, but different. He gets to live the same day over and over until he gets it right.”
I can’t help but marvel at how deeply he connects with the story. “You know, you kind of got the opposite deal,” I tease gently. “Instead of repeating the same day, you jumped forward two thousand years.”
His expression softens as he reaches for my hand. “And found you,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “Perhaps Goddess Fortuna had a plan all along.”
My heart melts at his words. We turn our attention back to the movie, but our hands remain linked, his thumb tracing lazy patterns on the back of my hand. Every touch sends little sparks of electricity through my body .
As Phil Connors learns to use his time to become a better person, I feel Thrax shift beside me, becoming more contemplative. “He changes,” Thrax observes quietly. “Each day, he learns, grows, becomes more…”
“More human?” I suggest.
He nods, his eyes never leaving the screen. “Like me, maybe. Learning this new world, day by day.”
I snuggle closer, breathing in his scent. “You’re doing pretty well, I’d say. Haven’t played with any high-voltage toasters lately.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “No, but I may have tried to blow out the lamp on my nightstand instead of using the switch.”
We both dissolve into giggles at the idea, and I find myself falling even deeper for this wonderful man who faces each day with such openness, appreciation, and a healthy dose of courage.
As the movie continues, we gradually shift positions until I’m practically in his lap, my head resting against his chest. His heartbeat provides a steady rhythm beneath my ear, more soothing than any lullaby.
I must drift off at some point because the next thing I know, Thrax is gently stroking my hair, the credits rolling on the screen. “Sleep well, my Skye,” he whispers, probably thinking I’m still asleep.
The sweetness of his tone, of those words, practically liquifies my insides. I want to stay awake, to savor every moment with him, but his warmth and the gentle rise and fall of his chest are too comforting to resist. I turn down the volume and fall asleep, my head on his chest. I dream of Punxsutawney Phil and flying machines and the gentle giant whose face is now almost as familiar as my own.
When I wake again, the room is dark except for the soft glow of the TV screen. Thrax is still holding me, his breathing deep and even. I smile, realizing he fell asleep, too .
For a moment, I just watch him, this amazing man who crossed time itself to be here. His face is peaceful in sleep, all the usual tension melted away. I reach up to trace his jaw with my fingertip, and his eyes flutter open, his gaze immediately drawn to my face and then arrowing to my lips with barely hidden hunger.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hey,” he replies, his voice husky with sleep. Then he grins. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep on our first movie date.”
“Me neither,” I admit with a laugh. “But it was perfect anyway.”
His expression turns tender as he cups my face in his large hand. “Every moment with you is perfect, Skye.”
And then he’s kissing me, soft and sweet, and I’m melting into him, and nothing else matters. Not time, not distance, not the impossibility of our situation. Just us, together, making the most of every precious moment we’re given.
When we finally pull apart, both a little breathless, I can’t help but smile. “Want to watch another one?”
His answering grin is all the response I need. As we settle in for another movie, I realize that, like Phil Connors, we’re learning to make each day count. And I wouldn’t want to spend them with anyone else.