Chapter Seventeen Ezra #2
I settle her onto her small twin-size bed, and she stirs.
Her eyes flutter open. “Ezra . . .”
“It’s me.” I sit down next to her, practically hanging off the tiny mattress. “Just rest, okay? I’ll warm up your soup and get you something to drink. Are you feeling all right?”
She extends her hand, wiggling it back and forth.
I laugh lightly. “Just call out if you need me.”
She nods, and I wait for her to close her eyes again before I move.
I hurry out to the car for the supplies I grabbed from the grocery store, then head for the kitchen.
It takes me a while to locate a pot so I can warm up the chicken-and-stars soup I found in the refrigerated section.
Once it’s going, I take the three different flavors of Gatorade I got into the bedroom for her, along with some aspirin, just in case she wants it.
I don’t know about her, but whenever I’m sick, I always get a splitting headache.
She lies curled on her side, her mouth slightly ajar, her hair moving up and down as she snores softly.
For someone who is so clearly miserable, she still manages to look beautiful. I have the urge to bend down and kiss her forehead, but I don’t want to bother her. So I force myself to leave and check on the soup instead of standing here staring at her like some weirdo.
On the way to the kitchen, the photographs lining the wall catch my eye, and I slow down to take them in.
The first is of Summer as a baby, and she somehow looks so much like she does now, and completely different all at once.
The second is of her and—if I had to guess—her mother.
Their smiles are identical, almost eerily so.
And the third is of her parents at what appears to be their wedding.
They look happy, like they’ll never get tired of each other.
You can feel the love pouring out of each photo, and I wish that Summer never lost this.
I wish I had never lost it too. I don’t often think of my parents, but I suddenly find myself missing them in a way I haven’t in a long, long time.
I peel my gaze away and check on the soup. Once it’s ready, I scrounge around for a bowl and a spoon and take it to her.
To my surprise, she’s awake.
“Hey,” I say softly. “How you doing?”
“Tired. Hot. Cold. So many different things.”
I hold out the bowl of soup. “Want something to eat?”
She grimaces. “Yes, but also no. But yes.”
I chuckle. “Maybe try a few bites, then reevaluate?”
She nods, pushing up to a sitting position, then scooting over.
I toe off my shoes, then climb in beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. The bed is comically small for me, and even Summer notices.
“You look absurd in my bed.”
“I’m sure you tell all the boys that.”
She rolls her eyes, still somehow sassy even when she’s sick. “There have been no other boys in here, Ezra.”
“Not even when you were a teenager?”
“Are you kidding me? I wasn’t cool enough for a boyfriend back then.”
“And are you now?”
She raises a brow. “Careful. That almost sounds like you’re asking to be mine.”
I wait for that familiar panic to settle in whenever something is mentioned to me about relationships, but it doesn’t.
In fact, it never comes. Not when I practically hand-feed Summer soup just like a boyfriend would do, or when I open her Gatorade.
And it doesn’t even come when she gets sick again, and I end up holding her hair back for her.
That’s scary in and of itself, but I try my best not to read too much into it as I get her back in bed.
“I’m sorry,” she says as she curls against me, shaking from the chills.
“For what?”
“Getting sick. I know it’s trivia night, and I’m sure you have a lot better things to do than sit around taking care of me.”
“I’m exactly where I want to be.”
It’s the truth. I would much rather be here than at the cidery listening to the remodel construction or poring over the invoices I was working on before Warner came and told me about Summer.
I feel her smile against my side. “Thank you. It’s nice of you to risk getting sick for me.”
I think I’d risk a lot more than just that, but I don’t say anything.
Instead, I wrap my arm around her tighter and hold her close as she falls back asleep.
After a while, I feel a wet spot form on my shirt, but I don’t dare move.
I couldn’t if I wanted to. I’m too determined to see this through, and honestly, even though she’s sick, I don’t want to leave her.
I want to be the one there to take care of her for whatever she needs, and I’m not sure what that means, but it’s something for me to sort out later.
Right now I just want to be here with her, so that’s exactly what I do.
I jolt awake, and the first thing I think of is Summer.
I reach beside me and am surprised to find that the bed’s empty and cold.
What the hell?
I groan as I lift off the tiny mattress, my hip stiff and aching as I set my feet on the floor.
My eyes go to the old-school alarm clock on the bedside table. Holy shit. It’s after eight, which means I’ve been out for a solid three hours at this point.
I scrub a hand over my face, then go in search of Summer. I find her quickly, the light shining from beneath the bathroom door a dead giveaway.
“Summer?” I call out to her. “Are you okay?”
There’s no answer, and I lean closer, straining for any signs she’s getting sick again, but there’s nothing.
It’s quiet.
Unease settles into my gut, and I push the door open slowly.
My stomach drops at the sight before me. She’s curled up on the floor, her arm clutching her stomach, her hair a matted, sweaty mess.
“Fuck, Summer,” I say, shouldering my way into the small room.
She stirs, trying to blink open her eyes. “I got sick again.”
“I can see that.” I drop to my haunches in front of her, my hip pinching at the movement. “Can you get up?”
“Maybe with some help?”
I get her to a standing position, then tug on the shirt she’s wearing. She never changed after she got home from work, and I imagine she’s in desperate need of some new clothes.
She lets me lift the material over her head. She holds on to me as I undo the button on her jeans, then shimmy them down her legs until she steps out of them. I unclasp her bra, and she takes her panties off on her own as I reach around her and turn on the shower.
When the water is warm enough, I help her in, frowning at the way she leans against the wall for support.
“Do you want me to stay?”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to.”
“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you wanted me to.”
She hesitates a moment, then nods. “Please.”
I strip out of my clothes as fast as possible and step into the tiny tub-and-shower combo, getting behind her. I squirt some shampoo on my hands and massage it into her scalp. She moans as my fingers dance through her hair.
“That feels so good,” she murmurs.
It’s all we say through the entire routine.
I clean her hair, then condition it. After that I squirt bodywash onto the loofah she points to and scrub it over her body.
Not once does my cock twitch or do I get the urge to press against her to do anything other than hold her steady, and it’s not because I don’t find her attractive even now. I’m too focused on getting her better.
When she’s nice and warm and clean, I wrap the towels I find in the small closet around us and help her out.
We make our way to her bedroom, and I slip back into my dress shirt, leaving it unbuttoned, and pull just my slacks on.
When she falls asleep, I’ll go out to the car and grab my gym bag for a change of clothes.
I strip her bed bare, figuring she might want clean sheets to sleep on.
“They’re in the hall closet,” she says without me having to ask where new ones might be.
She helps me make the bed, and I can’t stop thinking about how domestic this all feels. Sure. I’m here taking care of her because she’s sick, but is this what it would be like if we were really together? If she wasn’t going back to Chicago? If I weren’t so dead set against relationships?
And is it really so bad?
Once the bed is made, we crawl back into it, and Summer snuggles against my side like she’s done so many nights before.
“Feeling any better?” I ask, my lips against her forehead.
“Marginally. I think I might be done puking for the night.”
“That’s always good. Do you want more soup?”
She shakes her head. “No. I just want to sleep. Is that okay?”
“Whatever you want, Sunny. I’ll be here.”
“My dad gets home at eleven.”
It sounds so silly. She’s a grown woman. She can have anyone she wants in her bed. But I get the feeling she’s not telling me because of that.
She’s just sticking to the rules we made when we started this thing, the ones that are becoming less and less clear.
“I’ll be gone before then.”
She kisses my chest. “You’re a good guy, Ezra.”
“You say that like you’re surprised by it.”
“I’m not. I always knew your grumpy side was just a front.” She yawns. “You hide behind your pain, use it as a wall. I like it when you let it down for me.”
It’s the last thing she says before she falls asleep.
Instead of following her into slumber, I watch her until it’s time for me to go. I kiss her forehead and text her instructions to eat and take some more medicine, then slip into my car and head home.
The whole drive there, all I can think is, I like letting it down for you, too, Summer.