15. Gwen
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
GWEN
“Okay, how’s that?” I ask as I release the button that adjusts the angle of the mattress.
Clyde shifts, wincing ever so slightly as he tries to get comfortable on the home-care bed that’s been set up for him. “My lower back is still sore from lying in the same goddamn position all the time. I knew they shouldn’t have taken me off the morphine.”
Bash scoffs, his shoulder propped against the doorframe of Clyde’s temporary bedroom. “Funny how a little pain brought you around to the merits of modern medicine so quickly.”
I shoot him a glare. “Can you not antagonize him for one day? I know this is your love language or whatever, but I want to make sure everything is okay.”
All I get in return is an irritated glare. One I give right back. Because I’m not in the mood for Bash’s shit right now.
I’ve stacked the pillows behind Clyde’s back, being borderline obsessive about getting him propped up just right.
Since getting him through the front door, the weight of taking care of him feels…
heavy. Like I signed up to care for this man who I’ve grown quite fond of, and if something goes wrong, I’ll hold myself responsible.
If I’m anything, it’s hard on myself.
I stand back and eye him carefully before sliding one extra pillow under his knees to take any extra pressure off his lower back.
“Oh, yup. That’s better, I think.” Clyde’s tired eyes flutter shut, and he sinks back.
He may be dramatic sometimes, but I can see the tension that comes with pain and exhaustion on his features.
His already weather-worn skin looks more deeply lined than usual, though the color seems to have improved in a matter of only five days.
“It’s a miracle I’ve survived this many days post-surgery without someone propping me up with every pillow in this house.”
I turn back slowly to face Bash, who clearly just can’t help himself.
“Do you want me to come upstairs and get you settled as well? If you keep this attitude up, I can hold a pillow down over your face to make it stop.”
Bash swallows roughly while continuing to glare at me but says nothing.
“Careful,” Clyde interjects with a raspy cackle, “some people are into that kind of shit.”
Bash’s cheeks heat as he watches us impassively, otherwise completely unfazed. “We’re gonna need to lay out some ground rules for this arrangement. Because I’m already annoyed by you two.”
“That’s a compliment coming from him,” Clyde whispers conspiratorially as he leans toward me.
I try not to laugh, because Bash looks serious as a heart attack when he begins to speak again. “I know this arrangement is best for everyone, so I’m tolerating it. I wouldn’t change it, but I don’t love it. This isn’t some happy-family dynamic. We’re roommates. You do your thing. I’ll do mine.”
I do my best to nod seriously, but Bash is downright sexy. It makes me want to needle him just so he’ll crack a smile.
I lean toward Clyde with a stage-whisper loud enough that Bash can hear.
“He reminds me of Oscar the Grouch sometimes.” Then I turn back to face Bash, wanting to reassure him that I understand.
“I love how honest you’re being with us about your expectations and what you need.
Clear communication will make sharing the space easier for everyone. ”
Clyde nods solemnly. “Bash, we understand. This is your trash can, and we’re just living in it.”
Bash’s jaw twitches. “The two of you are really annoying together. Do you know that?”
I flash him my brightest grin. “Just think of us as the two annoying kids you never wanted.”
“Oh, pfft,” Clyde scoffs, landing a playful slap on my arm. “Ain’t no way Bash is thinking about you like a kid.”
Bash groans, and before I can even lift my eyes back his way, he’s turned and left the room.
“Clyde, you really gotta ease off on him with that.”
The man turns to me with a blank expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My head tilts, and I prop my hands on my hips. “Stop playing, silly fucker.”
“He likes it.”
“I don’t think he does.”
Clyde drops the pretense with an annoyed grumble as he reaches for the book I unpacked and placed on the bedside table for him. It’s a compilation of firsthand accounts of alien abduction and, hilariously, exactly the type of literature I’d expect Clyde to consume.
“Well, then he needs it.”
“What?”
He doesn’t look up—just opens the book as he responds with, “Something that makes him happy.”
My brows furrow. “Which is what?”
Now it’s Clyde’s turn to hit me with a head tilt. “Gwen, stop playing, silly fucker.”
Once Clyde drifted off for an afternoon nap, I made my way out to the grocery store, using the card he gave me to purchase each item on the list he also provided. Of course, I accidentally forgot some of the less healthy items and replaced them with more nutritious options.
Clyde grumbled about it when I returned, but I just told him, “We’re taking good care of this kidney because no one else likes you enough to give you one.”
He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched. Funny, ornery old man that he is.
Now I crack a window and get to work preparing a healthy meal—whether Clyde approves or not.
After months in a small studio apartment, it feels good to spread out over the butcher-block countertops.
Light trickles in through the expansive windows and makes the gold hardware on the green cabinets shimmer.
My bare feet are warm on the wide floorboards and I feel alarmingly at ease in the space even though it’s all new to me.
Bash and I cross paths briefly, wordlessly preparing food side by side without him so much as sparing me a sideways glance.
I wish I could say the same for myself. Instead, I find myself fixating on the smell of him, willing him to look my way. To say something. To throw all that loyalty and commitment that I admire about him out the fucking window and cross a line.
I daydream about it. Him, swiping all the chopped vegetables off the counter and lifting me onto it.
Him, taking me out onto that balcony and bending me over the railing.
Waiting until Clyde’s asleep and then sneaking into my room next to his.
Covering my mouth with his hand to keep me quiet while he makes me come.
But my dreams aren’t meant to come true.
Because Bash isn’t that guy.
His morals barely let him look at me. And maybe I should be more concerned about my own morals because, when he retreats upstairs with his sandwich while I finish making chicken noodle soup for Clyde, I’m downright disappointed.
Dinner at the long dining room table feels strange knowing Bash is one floor above us all alone. I’m sure I don’t imagine the way the Clyde keeps checking the stairs, as though expecting to see Bash relent and join us.
After we eat, I clean Clyde’s incision and tuck him in, rolling my eyes when he tells me to stop hovering because I’m not his mother.
I think it’s because Clyde doesn’t make demands of me that taking care of him is so satisfying.
Not once has he asked me when I plan to settle down, find a steady job, or start a family.
I grew up with this feeling of never being good enough, never trying hard enough.
Never quite fitting in. I’m sure the unrelenting questions were my dad’s way of motivating me—it was the drill sergeant in him—but they only stifled me.
I was—and still am—too soft to hold up under that brand of motivation. It wasn’t until I got away, saw the world, found yoga that I felt like I might actually be good at something. That I discovered passion. That I learned to love my body. That I found helping others is what fulfills me.
It’s with those thoughts in mind that I shut the house down.
I double-check the locked doors and turn off almost all the lights— I leave a few on just in case Clyde needs to get up, something he assured me he doesn’t need any help with—before I head upstairs.
I look back over the living room, illuminated by the glow of the outdoor lights.
Vaulted wood panel ceilings make the room feel big but not sterile.
And the warm white walls make it feel airy but still rustic.
I turn away with a soft smile touching my lips. I can so perfectly imagine Bash building this place. It’s soothing and masculine and brimming with thoughtful touches—just like him.
Upstairs, I enter my room and let out a dreamy sigh. My room is beautiful, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to go enjoy the space. Be still. Stare at the lake. Meditate. Stretch.
The rounded bay window with a cushioned bench makes this the bedroom of my childhood dreams. A queen-size memory-foam bed—with a door just to the right that opens to a small balcony overlooking the lake—makes this the bedroom of my adult dreams. And after months of winter spent in the apartment above the yoga studio with zero outdoor living space, that balcony is where I want to be.
It’s still early spring in the mountains, so I grab a fleece, a pair of slouchy wool socks, and my yoga mat. I slip from my room, shutting the door quietly behind me.
The dead bolt on the outside of the door catches my attention.
It gets the wheels in my head turning, speculating on why Bash would possibly want to keep someone locked inside the room.
Too many crime podcasts filter into my thoughts, but I shake them away, telling myself to quit being so distracted.
But that proves to be impossible when I notice Bash mere feet away. He’s sitting out in front of his room. And until I fully stepped outside just now, I hadn’t realized the balcony runs the full width of the house.