Chapter 22
Taylor
It was clear by four p.m. that I still shouldn’t be left alone, and instead of asking, Knox told me I’d be coming back to his place again.
I didn’t argue, and he was nice enough to grab the things I’d had at my parents’.
My headache comes in waves. The medication helps, but if I go longer than four hours without it, the pressure in my brain makes my eyeballs feel like they’re going to pop out.
Apparently, screens are bad for concussions, so watching a movie is out, and Knox has been fielding texts from Livvy, who seems grateful for the updates, but is still being standoffish, based on her lack of exclamation points and emojis.
I’m basically useless, but Knox doesn’t complain. And I still don’t have much of an appetite—mostly because sitting up makes the room spin—but Knox makes me a bowl of noodle soup, and I agree to give it a try.
Despite my couch-bum status, he actually seems to be enjoying himself. Not because I’m hurt, but because he’s a nurturer. He would’ve made a great dad. Stern and tough enough that you want to make him proud, but also gentle and attentive in the quiet moments.
As I’m making my way through the bowl of soup, I hear Knox’s voice from down the hallway in the direction of the bedrooms. I can only hear one side of the conversation, but it doesn’t take long to deduce that he’s talking about me.
Especially when he says, “His symptoms seem to be worsening.” After a brief pause, I hear, “Thank you, Shannon.”
Knox comes into the living room a second later, and I slurp my soup, pretending like I wasn’t eavesdropping.
“I texted your sister to give her an update, and then I called one of my buddies. He’s married to a neurologist. They’re going to swing by in a few minutes because I want her to look you over.”
The raised brows of my shocked expression send a bolt of pain through my temple, and I almost dump soup all over the rug in Knox’s living room, but he catches the bowl before it falls from my hands.
“Here. Lie back down,” he commands, pulling me into his lap.
I still don’t know much about Knox’s dynamic within his friend group.
I know one of them volunteered him to babysit me when the hospital tried to keep me overnight, so I guess they won’t be shocked that I’m still here, but there’s a nagging voice in the back of my head, reminding me what happens when closeted men have to admit to others that maybe their ‘straight’ path has a bit of a curve to it after all.
“Does anything hurt besides your head?” Knox asks, his voice dripping with concern. “Are you going to be sick?”
“No, and I don’t think so,” I groan. This is not how I want to spend alone time with this gorgeous man.
I let him trail his fingers across my face.
The light touch reminds me of the bristles of one of my favorite blush brushes, and I briefly think about asking him to grab it from my toiletry bag, but I stop myself.
And I hate that I do it.
Ever since Patrick turned his back on me, it’s been hard not to wonder if maybe I was too much for him. Like maybe if I were somehow less gay, less into traditionally feminine things, less out, he might not have been so afraid of others finding out about us.
Like maybe my brand of gay is too gay.
The thought sours my already bad mood and I pull away from Knox. “Can I lie down in the bedroom? It’s too bright out here,” I say, needing a little bit of space.
“Sure, but you’re sleeping in my room tonight,” he says. “Bed’s bigger.”
My stupid mind totally glosses over the fact that he plans to share a bed with me again and instead, perseverates on the fact that he wants the bigger bed so he can be farther away from me.
That doesn’t even make sense, Taylor! The man is taking care of you. But he’s the kind of man who helps turtles cross the road and carries old ladies’ groceries. Of course, he’s taking care of me.
I barely have time to slip under the covers before I hear a knock on the front door and a feminine voice. “Hi, Knox. I’m glad you called. Where is he?”
“In my room. Said it was too bright out here,” Knox’s disembodied voice answers.
“Light sensitivity isn’t uncommon and can last for weeks after a concussion,” the lady says reassuringly, her voice growing louder as they move toward my location.
Next, I hear an unfamiliar man’s voice. I think he’s trying to whisper, but he’s not very good at it. “You have three bedrooms in this house, Knoxy. Why’s he in yours?”
I’d hold my breath to wait for the answer, but that makes my head pound worse.
Finally, Knox’s voice hits my ears right before they turn into the room. “Because it’s the only one with a bathroom attached, and if he gets up, I don’t want him to have to go far.”
Okay, well, that was a lie.
“And where are you sleeping?” the other man asks with a knowing lilt to his voice.
“The guest room,” Knox replies, causing my heart to sink.
Stupid me for believing it would be different this time. And even stupider me for thinking one dry humping sesh made us a thing despite Knox’s fountain of bullshit he spewed earlier about not hiding me.
A beautiful woman turns the corner first. She has long dark hair that’s pulled back into a stylish ponytail, kind eyes, and a pretty smile.
“Hi, Taylor. I’m Shannon. Do you mind if I take you through some tests to see what’s going on?”
“No,” I reply, even though I just want to be left alone with my spiraling thoughts. It’s almost like a sick joke my injured mind is playing on me. Like now that Knox is giving in, my mind has enough space to throw all my own insecurities at me.
But Shannon is nice enough. She asks me things about where I am, what happened, and what I did yesterday. Then she checks my pupils, reflexes, balance, coordination, and neck range of motion.
“Physically, you check out normally for someone with a terrible case of whiplash and probable neck strain. Did you do anything in the last twenty-four hours that could have spiked your heart rate or caused your muscles to tense up? Sometimes an adrenaline rush can make a concussion worse.”
I will my eyes to stay on hers and not look over at Knox because I’m pretty sure that orgasm this morning did both. At least we have our answer.
“Not that I recall.” If Knox can lie, so can I.
It might be childish, but hell, I get accused of being one often enough that maybe it’s time I tap into it.
Shannon asks a few more questions and finally decides I should be okay in another twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
She pulls a business card and pen from her purse and scribbles something on the back before handing it to me.
“If you have any new or worsening symptoms, I want you to call me right away. Cell number’s on the back. ”
I’m struck by her kindness. I don’t know any physicians who just go around handing out their phone numbers. And then another thought occurs to me. “I’m supposed to go back to work on Monday. Is there any problem with that?”
“What do you do?” she asks.
“I’m a flight attendant.”
A concerned look crosses her face. “I don’t want you lifting people’s luggage overhead. Is there someone else who can do that part?”
I think about the crew I’m working with on Monday’s flight and nod. Natalie will do it for me.
Shannon thinks for another second, her eyes narrowing. “I still don’t love it,” she finally says. “While I think you’ll be feeling better by then, the changes in cabin pressure probably won’t feel great, and you could end up getting pretty sick.”
Before I can answer, Knox says, “Then he’ll stay home.”
My eyes move to him and shoot daggers. “Knox, I can’t stay home. I’ve already been out of work for a week. If I don’t fly, I don’t get paid,” I argue. “I’ll be fine.”
He clamps his mouth shut, but his eyes definitely say we’ll talk about this later.
I need to get the hell out of here.
I’ll ask for a ride back to my parents, grab my car, go back to my condo, and somehow force myself to get over this attraction because my heart can’t survive another closeted man who wants to take me for a spin. Especially one who thinks he can make my choices for me.
A minute later, everyone files out the door, and I slowly climb out of the bed. I’m going to take a leak and demand Knox take me to my parents.
Playtime is over.
I hear the front door close just as I finally get vertical. I’ve taken two steps when Knox is in the doorway again.
“Taylor, why are you up?” he says, rushing to my side.
I hold my hand up to stop him.
“I have to pee, and I’m doing it on my own,” I tell him, leaving no room for argument. “When I come back out, can you take me back to my parents’?”
“Today’s only Friday,” he points out with a note of sadness in his voice.
I make my way slowly to the bathroom without answering him. Once I close the door and turn to face the sinks, I have to grip the counter to steady myself.
It’s a dual vanity. On one sink, Knox has unpacked my toiletry kit.
My entire toiletry kit. My toothbrush and toothpaste are in the little stand, mirroring his.
My razor is next to the sink. My blush, eyeliner, and eyeshadow palette are in a tidy row, and my brushes are underneath them, laid in order by bristle size.
I swallow the emotion working its way up my throat and force myself not to think about what it could mean, or how much I like seeing my stuff here.
Maybe I’m not too gay after all. I do what I came in here to do, but I can’t bring myself to pack up my toiletries just yet.
I’ll do those last since he took the time to lay them out so nicely.
Upon exiting the bathroom, I see Knox sitting on the end of his bed. His eyes meet mine as soon as I open the door.
“Did I do something to make you uncomfortable?” he asks, all sorts of vulnerability on display.
Fuck me.
Not one to shy away from hard conversations, I opt for the truth as I make my way over to the chair my bag is next to. Never really understood why people have chairs in their bedrooms, but I’m thankful for it right now because I will give in far too quickly if I move any closer to Knox Bennett.
“Not uncomfortable in the sense you mean. More like uncomfortable with myself and the pattern I seem to be creating.”
“Care to share with the class?” he asks, mimicking my text message from Wednesday. He’s trying to keep his tone light, but I hear the panic in it.
Which is why I thought this could be different.
There’s something between us that neither of us saw coming, neither of us can deny, and neither of us can explain.
It was there that first night we met, and it continues to grow like a cancer, feeding off the worst parts of ourselves—his denial, my obsession, and both of our insecurities.