29. Stacey
CHAPTER 29
STACEY
TWO DAYS LATER
I ’m not sure what I expected manic Mitch to be like, but it was not ... that. All the descriptions I’ve heard about mania have made it sound almost fun for the person in the moment, but once he’d called his psychiatrist, Mitch explained that he experiences mixed episodes, which basically means he might be in a manic episode, but he’ll feel depressed at the same time, or rapidly switch between the two. It makes him really irritable and on edge. Sounds like hell, if you ask me.
Well, the whole thing sounds like hell, actually. I have no idea how he’s managed this so well for so long. Especially with his hockey schedule. The things he has to do daily to stay stable overwhelm even me, and I love a good checklist. It’s been three days since he had to call his psychiatrist, and either Thomas or I have been with him most of the time. He insists he’ll be fine, but I honestly just want to be with him right now. He shouldn’t have to go through this alone. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t really worried about him still. The good news is, the medication has started to do its job and he’s starting to seem like himself again, and I told most of my clients that I’d be out this week so that I could focus on Caleb and Cassie’s wedding.
Mitch is taking a nap and it's almost time for dinner. I told Thomas I wanted to have a night alone with Mitch and that I’d call him if anything happens. I want to surprise Mitch, but the problem is, I have no clue what to do. He’s probably not ready to go out yet, but I want this to be special. I want him to know that I’m in this, whatever this is, and that I’m not going anywhere. That no matter what, we’re friends (or ... whatever we are) and that he’s worthy of my friendship. I walk down the hall towards the kitchen to poke around for ideas when I find myself nearly toppling over and slamming into the hallway wall. I tripped on something. A blanket. Man, we really need to clean this place up.
I pick up the blanket and place it on the back of a dining chair, but a little corner gets stuck on the edge of the couch. It almost looks like a tent. A cozy, fun little fort tent.
I grab another corner of the blanket and stretch it across the couch, raising the roof of the fuzzy makeshift tent I seem to be creating. I drag another dining chair across the floor and secure the blanket to it.
Then, just as I’m reaching for a throw pillow to put on the floor, I realize it I’m making a fort. I’m a grown-ass woman making a fort for a grown-ass man. And yet I can’t help but laugh because it’s perfect. It’s exactly what he needs.
About an hour later Mitch emerges from the bedroom, hair floppy and sweats resting low on his hips.
“Hey, love,” he says as he rubs his eyes. When his arms finally rest by his sides and his eyes open, they go wide. “What’s all this? ”
“This?” I say. “It’s a fort. Obviously.”
“You built me a fort?” he asks, lips curling up at the edges just a bit.
“I also ordered you pizza and pulled up your favorite movie,” I say, taking a step towards him. He reaches out and runs his hand up my arm.
“Oh really?” he says, taking a step towards the fort. He ducks his head low and pokes it inside the opening in the blankets. “Holy shit. How did you know this is my favorite movie?”
“You’re a hockey player, it was a lucky guess,” I say, even though it’s not the whole truth. I may have had to google to understand the reference, but ... “And also you wear that Gordon Bombay Hockey School hat all the time. I just put two and two together.”
“Woah,” he says, continuing to examine the fort. “Where did you get the lights?”
“The hall closet,” I say. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“I never actually put them up this year, so at least they’re getting used. And you know you have free reign of my place,” he says. “I even gave you the code to my building, remember?”
I hadn’t really thought about the significance of him doing that, the intimacy of it. It’s like having my own key to his home, and the reality of it kinda makes me want to panic. But Mitch needs stability right now, not a commitment-phobe freaking out in his living room. So I take a deep breath and cross to the kitchen to get the pizza.
“How many slices do you want?” I ask.
“I’ll start with two,” he says. I can hear shuffling coming from the fort, so I guess he’s making himself comfortable. As I’m placing some pizza on plates for us, I hear the doorbell ring.
I cross towards the door and unlatch the lock. When I open the door, I see nothing but a bouquet of flowers. Peonies, to be exact.
“Delivery for Stacey,” a voice says from behind the bouquet.
“I ... uh...” I reach out and take the flowers, and the delivery man is gone as quick as he arrived. I stand in the doorway, unable to move.
“It’s Thursday,” Mitch’s deep voice says from behind me.
I turn around to find him standing next to the fort I made, hand at the back of his neck, head hung a bit as he looks up at me with rosy cheeks.
“I ...” I start. But I can’t find words. My brain can’t put together thoughts. “We’re at your condo,” I finally squeak out.
“Yes, love,” he says with the beginnings of a grin starting at the edge of his lips.
“How ... what ...” I stutter.
“Open the card,” he says, nodding toward the little envelope tucked into the bouquet. I pull it out and open the little flap. In the same handwriting from the same flower shop as every other card on every other Thursday, it says, I figured I really owe you some peonies at this point. I know they’re your favorite. Thank you for everything. Love, Mitch.
“It was you. The whole time. It’s always been you,” I say.
“Well, I couldn’t very well start skipping Thursdays now, could I?” he says, tentative smile growing a bit as I look up at him and I realize I’m stuck standing where I am. “You good?” he asks.
“Of course I’m good,” I say. “I’m just a bit ... shocked, I guess?”
Shocked.
But not surprised.
Because as much as I hate to admit it, Mitch has better taste in flowers than I do. He’s also thoughtful and kind and so completely different from the goofball I thought he was .
I look back up from the flowers at him and find myself rushing toward him. I throw my arms around his neck as he lifts me off the ground.
“So,” he says. “You love them?” he says.
“I love them,” I say. And you, I think.
Holy fuck.
What?
I couldn’t possibly be in love with Mitch Greggs.
And yet ...
I think I might be in love with Mitch Greggs.