26. Bradley
Bradley
A n annoying, banging sound jolts me from sleep. I shoot up straight; the Afghan dropping around my waist as my eyes scan the room frantically.
Is there an intruder? An earthquake? What the fuck is happening?
It takes a second—maybe five—for my brain to register that I’m on the couch, my clothes crumpled like discarded laundry, one arm twisted beneath me and my face pressed into a throw pillow that smells faintly of body odor and maybe something else.
Puke? The living room is dim; the blinds I installed replace the drab curtains Nana had, and only allow thin stripes of sunlight to cut across the floor.
The doorbell rings again, sharper this time, cutting through the fog in my head like a jagged knife.
I groan, swinging my legs over the edge of the couch. My stomach rolls with the sudden movement as I fight to push down the bile trying to work its way up.
The bell rings again, but this time it’s followed by urgent knocking—three firm pounds against the wood. The kind of knock that says ‘ I know you're in there, open the damn door’. Reminiscent of every knock you’ve seen in a movie or television show when the police show up.
"I'm coming!" I croak, throat raw and dry. “Hold your fucking horses.”
Every muscle protests as I peel myself off the couch.
My whole body aches like I’ve been hit by a slow-moving train and then dragged for a mile behind it just for shits and giggles.
I shuffle to the door in a pair of sweatpants that have definitely seen better days and a hoodie that might be on backwards.
I can’t even tell. It hurts too much to try and verify.
I open the door.
It’s Jefferson.
Shit.
He stands there, handsome as ever, gazing back at me in shock, no confusion.
Jefferson smiles, faltering only slightly as he holds up the bag of food. “Did I get the time wrong?”
Realization hits me like a wrecking ball. I’d forgotten. Completely. I was supposed to cancel. To message him and let him know I was sick. This date wasn’t for a function, so I knew it wouldn’t be a big deal. But I let the ball drop.
I blink at him, swaying slightly as I hold on to the doorknob for dear life, steading myself as the world begins to spin. “No. I meant to message you. I fell asleep.” My voice sounds gritty like sandpaper. “Or passed out. Something to that effect.”
He doesn’t speak right away, instead his gaze moves over me, taking in every detail—my pale face, the way I’m leaning on the door like it’s the only thing keeping me upright, which it is , the sweat on my forehead, and the rancid smell permeating off my body.
“Jesus, Bradley. Are you okay?”
I laugh, or try to. It comes out more like a wheeze, before I begin coughing up a lung, hoping that nothing else comes spewing from my body. “Food poisoning. Flu. Bubonic plague. Hard to say. Take your pick. It could be one or all of them.”
He shifts the bag in his hand and steps forward instinctively, like he’s ready to catch me if I drop, which I might. His brows knit together, deepening the crease between them. His arm slips around my waist, gripping me tight, yet gently.
“I didn’t mean for you to see me like this. You should go before you catch anything if it’s contagious.”
Fuck! I really hope that Malcolm isn’t sick. I know today is the day he’s coming out to his family. I wonder if he has? How is it going? If he’s okay?
“Nonsense. I’m glad I did. Someone should be making sure you’re taking care of yourself.
Besides, if I get sick then I get sick,” he says, brushing past me gently and walking inside like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I brought us Chinese, but you need soup. Which I plan to get for you just as soon as I help you to bed.”
I blink again. Is he serious? “No, the couch,” I tell him weakly. While I’d much rather be in my bed, he’s going to be leaving and the couch to the door is far less a distance to walk.
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in bed?” He ushers me further into the house, only letting go of me long enough to shut the door.
I nod, too tired and nauseous to speak. The energy to answer the door is more than my body had.
We move. He doesn’t know where to go, so I nod to the opening just ahead to the left.
He guides me, making sure to go slow, and I melt.
He’s so sweet as he moves me to the couch and I move toward the far end that has the pillow I’d been using and my blanket.
Jefferson eases me down onto the cushion, then sits down beside me.
My chest tightens, but not from sickness this time. I watch as he sets the bag down on the coffee table and pulls out his phone, his hands moving across the screen. Once he’s done, he sets it down on the wood beside the bag.
He turns back toward me, and he posture relaxes. “You should lie down,” he says gently.
I nod, too tired to argue. “Yeah… I was doing that. Before you came knocking, waking me up.”
His mouth quirks at the corner. “You’re lucky I did. You need to eat, and soup is on the way.”
“Soup?” I question.
“Yep, it should be here in like fifteen to twenty minutes.”
I half-smile, angling my body so I can lie back down and cover up. The cushions feel like clouds compared to my body. I close my eyes, not even caring that he’s still here, that he’s seeing me like this.
“Where’s your kitchen?” he asks in a whisper.
“Across the room, through the dining room to the right.” I gesture toward the direction, knowing this house like the back of my hand, not even opening my eyes once.
I hear the rustle of the bag, and the echo of his steps moving away from me. A few minutes later I hear him coming just before I feel a weight on my forehead. A hand, cool and comforting. His.
“You’re burning up,” he says quietly.
“No shit,” I mumble. “Can you tell Death to come back later?”
He chuckles.
“I’ll tell him you’re on a break and to go annoy some other poor unfortunate soul.”
I nod, half-smiling. He takes hold of my legs, lifting them in the air before sitting down, the weight of the couch dipping lightly, before he places his hands on my feet and begins to rub them.
Holy hell, I’ve died and gone to Heaven.
Jefferson
He’s finally sleeping, his soft snores drifting through the room.
I made sure he took his medicine and ate some of the soup.
He didn’t finish it, but I wasn’t expecting him to.
There was enough in the container for a few meals and with him telling me he hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday, anything he’s able to keep down is a blessing.
I gently lift his legs, angling my body so I can slip out from under them, before gently placing them back down. Removing the compress from his head, I carry it with me along with his bowl of soup to the kitchen.
Now that he’s asleep and comfortable, I plan to do a little snooping.
Bradley’s open about his life, but there’s more I want to know.
He’s like an obsession that I can’t break free from.
While my heart still aches for Malcolm, until he’s free from his restraints, we can’t move forward.
Bradley is a love interest that hit me fast and hard, and I’m ready to explore.
Placing the soup in the refrigerator, I pull out the container of Chinese food, then open the cabinet, take out a plate, place some combination Kow on it and warm it in the microwave. Bradley had insisted I eat when he did, but I blew him off.
While it heats up, I step over to the table and pick up the mail I saw earlier. One by one I go through them until I see one from the bank that catches my eye.
It’s open, so it’s not a federal offence if I take a peek at what's inside. I just need to know if it’s what I need or not.
Bingo!
My lips stay pressed together as I read the contents.
Swallowing at the amount he needs to raise.
Realization dawns on me why he’s working so hard.
It’s why I think he’s sick. His body is physically exhausted as well as mentally.
From taking care of his grandmother through her illness, putting his life on hold, to trying to save the last little piece he has left of his family.
The microwave beeps, cutting through the quiet of the room.
I step over and open the door. The wave of heat and the aroma of chicken and steamed vegetables hit me right in the face as my stomach growls loudly.
I pull the plate out carefully, fingertips dancing around the edges of the hot ceramic as steam rises, and set it on the counter.
Bending over, I blow on the food, cooling it slightly before I dare take my first bite.
Then I do. It’s good. Really good.
Savory, comforting, a perfect meal.
But I have an agenda, and taking time to eat is not on the menu. I inhale it so quickly I don’t even enjoy the taste. I’m not sure how long Bradley will be sleeping and I still want to learn more about him and pictures are the way to do it.
Between bites, my eyes drift around the kitchen. It’s like stepping into a preserved museum of someone’s grandma’s glory days. Rooster burner covers, a plastic-wrapped floral chair in the corner, and those overly cheerful crocheted pot holders dangling like soft trophies from the oven door.
I can’t help but snort. So unlike what I’d picture Bradley’s kitchen to look.
Then the realization sneaks up and sucker-punches me in the gut.
I’m older. Old enough to be someone’s grandfather.
This could be my kitchen…well, if I was into that sort of look.
Which I’m not. I shake it off fast. I’m not old, I’m seasoned.
I’m a goddamn panther. If women can be cougars, then sure as hell, panther works for men.
The plate is empty before I realize it. Rinsing it and the fork in the sink, I give them a quick scrub before placing them neatly in the strainer. Bradley doesn’t need to clean up after me, sick or not. I wipe my hands on a dish towel that smells faintly of lemon and head toward the living room.
I tiptoe across the floor, not wanting to wake up Bradley—he’s still sleeping soundly. He’s rolled onto his side, his hands tucked underneath his face, his lips slightly parted and a string of drool hanging from it. You’d never know he’s as sick as he is.
The hallway is dim but cool, like the rest of the house.
I run my fingers lightly along the frames as I pass them—snapshots of years gone by—straightening ones that are not quite centered.
I get a virtual video of Bradley as a kid, grinning from ear to ear.
I see him with a couple, one he resembles who must be his parents. I watch him grow from a child to a man.
Then… that one. The photo that makes me freeze in my spot.
It’s of him and an older woman, clearly family—her skin pale and thinning, propped up in a bed with floral sheets.
He’s smiling next to her, but his eyes—his eyes are full of sadness.
It’s recent. Or at least, it feels that way. He looks the same as he does now.
It must be his grandmother. The one he just lost. Who raised him and left him this house, and the unknown debt it holds.
The pressure mounting in my bladder urges me to head to the bathroom. I continue down the hallway until I reach it, closing the door gently behind me, and relieve myself. I’m in the middle of washing my hands, water rushing over my soapy fingers, when I hear it—faint but clear.
“Jefferson.” It’s a little broken, a little unsure. Did he think I left?
“I’ll be right there—in the bathroom,” I call out, already reaching for the washcloth and running it under cool water. He needs a new one.
When I step back into the living room, he’s sitting up a bit, my phone in his hand. “Your phone was ringing,” he says, holding it out to me.
But his face…he looks broken, crushed.
His expression is off. Not groggy, not sleepy. Wrong. Too still. Too quiet.
“Your phone was ringing,” he says again, and it’s not the words that make my heart hitch.
It’s how he says them.
“I got you a new washcloth.” I hand it out to him as I take the phone from him. A gentle exchange. He swings his legs off the couch, placing his feet on the floor, standing slowly.
“Thank you for tonight. For the soup and taking care of me. I’ll make sure you get your money returned. But I’m going to go to bed.” He’s already stepping around me, heading to the front door.
“Bradley. I don’t want the money back. Is everything okay?”
He turns around, facing me, “Peachy. I’m just ready to shower and crawl into my bed. But I can’t do that until I lock the door.” He smiles. But it’s forced.
“Okay.” I follow behind him, not sure what to say.
When we reach the door, I lean in to kiss him and he turns his head away from me.
That hurt.
“I don’t want to get you sick if it’s contagious.” It’s what he says, but I don’t believe him. I think there’s more.
As soon as I step across the threshold onto the porch, the door shuts, the clicking of the lock going into place, and effectively locking me out.
It’s only then I look down at my phone and see who called.
Malcolm.
Did it upset him? We’re not dating, but I do want to pursue whatever this is between us outside the framework of the Foxy website.
There's a voicemail waiting. I debate on listening to it, but before I decide if I want to, a text message pops up.
Malcolm: I did it. It didn’t go well. I could really use you right now.
He really did it. Disbelief and pride swarm through me. I know his parents. They’re complete bigot assholes and only barely tolerate me. The only reason I was ever in their presence was because of Malcolm.
He needs me and I can’t not be there for him.
Me: OMW.