Mateo
Chapter thirty-three
Ilove her.
It's the only explanation.
The only reason I can fathom that would make me feel so incredibly empty when she's not around. Why I need to be needed, by her.
If that makes what I'm about to do selfish, then so be it.
She's going to be so fucking pissed, but I knock anyway.
Silence on the other side of the door.
I knock again, hating that I'm likely waking her.
This time there's shuffling beyond the door.
"What do you want?" she asks. She sounds miserable, her voice nasally and deep.
In case she's looking through the peephole in the door, I lift the container in my hand.
"I brought you soup, it's still hot," I say, then hold up the grocery bag in my other hand. "And if you eat that, I have other provisions."
The cold bites at my nose while I wait.
The door opens.
"What kind of soup?" she asks, letting me in and closing the door behind me.
Love.
I fucking love her.
Because somehow underneath the mess of hair falling out of the tie that's supposed to be holding it up, the too big T-shirt she's wearing, and the miserable frown on her face…she's still beautiful.
She's a sick little gremlin, but she's mine.
Except she isn't.
Not really.
She flops onto the couch in the T-shirt I've been missing since Baltimore and buries herself beneath a blanket.
"When's the last time you took any meds?" I ask, walking past her to the small kitchen.
She groans but doesn't answer me.
I put one of the sports drinks I brought her in the fridge, along with a Red Bull. Then grab the spoon I find in the dish strainer on the counter and bring it and the soup to the couch.
"Eat," I say. "Even if it's only the broth." I put a sports drink on the coffee table in front of her.
"You shouldn't be here," she says, narrowing her eyes but sitting up to take the soup from me. "Everything hurts. Why does strep throat as an adult feel like the fucking flu?" She whimpers. "Ow."
"If I was going to get it I would've already, and besides you're no longer contagious right?"
She nods and lifts the spoon to her lips but doesn't eat it. Instead, she side eyes me.
"Who made this?" she asks.
"I did."
Her expression is unreadable, but she takes a bite. And then another.
"Stop watching me eat you fucking weirdo," she says, exchanging the bowl in her hands for the sports drink. "Why are you here anyway?"
"You're sick," I say, sitting beside her.
"Your point?" she asks.
"Who takes care of you when you're sick, Storm Cloud?"
"I do," she says.
"Not anymore."
She swallows, but it's followed by a cringe.
"When is the last time you took anything for the fever?" I ask.
"I'm on amoxicillin."
I anticipated this. Because as well as she takes care of her son, she seems to think she's invincible. I dig into the pocket of my sweats and pull out a bottle of ibuprofen, open it, and pour four into my palm, holding them out to her.
She takes each one from me with a scowl on her face.
But she does it.
And then the strangest thing happens, she hands me the remote, lays down on the couch, and puts her head in my lap.
"50 First Dates," she says.
Ten minutes into the movie, Jade's breathing slows and her body relaxes.
I don't dare move, but I take advantage of her slumber and examine the small apartment.
The outside was nothing of note, a narrow three-story home with wood exterior stairs leading up to her second-floor apartment.
It could be in better shape, but it could also be worse.
Her entire apartment is visible from where I sit on the couch against the wall.
The kitchen is about ten square feet, big enough for one person.
I could stir soup on the stove and open the fridge without moving a foot.
It's small, but tidy and comfortable. It doesn't feel sparse like I was expecting.
And I definitely wasn't expecting the sketchbook I find on the side table open to a drawing of me.
In it, I'm smiling, my hand gripping the back of my neck.
Carefully, I pick it up and turn back a page.
In this one, Coop and I are playing a board game.
I flip back another page. I'm sleeping on my back, the sheet tangled in my legs.
There's me with a whisk and a bowl, and another of me and Coop on the couch, controllers in our hands.
Every single one is me. I flip to the first page. You can't see my face but the tattoos drawn on my back give it away.
This is proof she loves me too. She just doesn't know it yet.
Or won't admit it.
It's okay though. I've already been on this road for forty-one years, and I'll keep driving in circles if it means waiting for her to catch up.