19. Georgie
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GEORGIE
The universe works in mysterious ways, of that, I am almost certain.
It took its time creating Noah. This rare breed of human who is just so innately, inherently, intrinsically good. For some reason, I was given the gift of getting to know him, and for that I am eternally grateful, and I feel almost undeserving.
Noah reads to me, from the other side of my bed when he returns with our book of choice, and I find myself lulled into a sense of security and comfort.
Him being here distracts me from the constant pain I’m in right now.
The flares came back after the good days gave me a reprieve.
Exercising with the dogs probably wasn't my best idea, but it was something Noah wanted to do, and I wanted to be with Noah, and so in that moment it was worth it. It’s still worth it, but now I am paying the price.
I can barely sit, the flare at the tiptop of my butt crack where my tailbone is has reared its ugly head again, and the worst part is the only way to soothe that one is to not sit, or if I am sitting, it’s naked in a tub so hot the water turns my skin lobster pink and the Epsom salts soothe the ache until I can’t stand it anymore.
Pair that with a new flare on my thigh right next to the old scar, I understand why Birdie was resting her head on my legs and sniffing me. It’s like she could sense it coming.
At some point, I feel myself drifting toward Noah; his soft voice, not too deep but just deep enough to soothe me, draws me in and makes me want to get closer to him.
He says nothing when he feels the dip of the bed as I scoot closer to him.
He says nothing again when I nudge his arm out of the way so I can rest my head on his chest. I can hear his heart beating, a heavy boom-boom-boom.
He doesn’t look nervous, he doesn’t even hesitate as he continues to read out loud about Val and Tom, the best friends of the book’s characters.
He wraps his arm around my shoulders as he turns the next page.
It makes me let out a content sigh, nuzzling my head just a bit to see a reaction.
His jaw flexes, his heart thumps, but he continues as if I am not snuggling up to him.
But I think he knows that I know the brave face he puts on is a farce.
He is nervous. Because of me. I can’t tell if that’s good or bad.
The thing is, because I’ve already read this book, I’m not really listening to the words. I know what’s going to happen in the story. But Noah’s voice is clear and like warm dripping honey, slow and sweet. It’s soothing, I can feel myself growing heavier, eyelids threatening to close.
“You with me?” Noah says softly, rubbing my arm with his hand. I can feel how cold his fingers are in comparison to my skin and I hiss.
But it feels nice, and I hope he doesn’t stop.
“‘M not sleeping.” I mumble against his chest.
He chuckles, “It’s okay if you are. Rest, Georgie. I’m here. I’ve got you.”
I sigh again, a smile on my face. I feel him kiss my forehead, absolutely melting me inside out. He’s warm and he’s solid and he’s here and he’s got me, and I fall asleep with that playing in my mind like a mantra.
He’s here, he’s got me.
When I wake next, there’s the smell of something wonderful wafting through my apartment and the sound of music in the kitchen.
I almost forget why there would be those smells and noises, but then I remember all at once.
Noah is here, he’s still here, and it’s the driving force to get myself out of bed to investigate.
It takes some effort, but I do it, slowly and stealthily making my way into the hallway, to veer right into the doorway of the kitchen.
Now that I am near him, I can hear him humming as he stirs something aromatic, something fresh.
I try to think of what it could possibly be, but last I checked I had very little in the way of nice groceries.
I lean against the door frame, my arms wrapped around my middle while watching him cook.
He’s standing at my stove, humming a song that sounds familiar but I can’t quite place, swaying from side to side as he stirs whatever it is he’s concocting.
He turns slightly but doesn’t notice me, so I get to see him with his guard down.
Noah’s eyes are soft, a little puffy with sleep and his lips are pulled into a contented smile, his hair is fluffed and pushed off his face.
His T-shirt is a size too big for him but raises slightly when he reaches above my stove into a cupboard to grab seasoning from my spice basket.
I can see a thin strip of his skin, and wonder what it would be like to kiss him there, the soft skin at his hips, the small of his back…
I make a noise, I must, because he stills at what he’s doing, glances over his shoulder at me and grins. It’s only then that I realize it's too late. He’s seen me. I am not wearing pants. Just my t-shirt and some old underwear that should never see the light of day and-
“Hello, beautiful.”
His comment does nothing to stop my brain from screaming at me to run, to hide, to pull down the shirt, to cover the scars he might see.
In this state of undress. In the aforementioned underwear. Oh god. I want to die.
“Hey, none of that." He tuts, realizes what I'm trying to do and takes a step towards me, away from whatever delicious-smelling thing he's cooking on my stove.
Part of me wonders what that is, but another part of me is distracted by the fact that he is standing in front of me, he's looking at me, he's taking my hands in his and he's pulling them away from the hem of the shirt that I'm trying to hold down to cover myself.
I whine, try to pull away but he's unfazed by my protest. Instead, he pulls my hands up to his mouth and places a kiss on the back of each one.
It's so gentle, so sweet, so Noah that I don't know how to react.
It makes me blush, makes me smile when he smiles back, and it makes me want so many things.
“What are you doing out of bed?”
“I was woken up by the smells,” I admit, face heating with embarrassment when my stomach growls. Loudly. Noah chuckles.
“I figured you hadn’t eaten all day. How are you feeling?” Noah asks, touching my forehead.
“Um… I mean, I think the fever broke,” I mumble.
“I’ll check it again in a bit. Are you still not feeling 100%?” He cares, God, he cares so damn much it hurts.
“I never feel 100%. It’s… complicated.” , Trying and failing to look away.
“I’m a big boy, I can handle complicated.”
I flounder. Mouth open. Mouth closed. Eyes wide as saucers.
Unsure how to proceed. What do you even say when a man tells you that?
All I know how to do is deflect and avoid, so I clear my throat, “What are you cooking? Also, how are you cooking when I know for a fact I didn’t have half of that in my house? ”
It distracts him, but I see the grit of his teeth when his jaw flexes. He shrugs, “I may have placed a grocery delivery order to make this…”
“You didn’t have to do that...”
“I wanted to.” He tells me emphatically with a squeeze.
“I thought you told me you don’t like cooking.” I remind him as he steps away from me to continue stirring.
“That’s still true. But I can cook, and I wanted you to have something nice when you woke up.”
“What time even is it?” I have lost all sense of time, which is a common theme in my life on flare days that I hate.
“It’s around 9. The sun’s just gone down. Okay, this is done.”
He clicks off my stove, scanning my cupboards and pulling down bowls, one for me, one for him.
Then he grabs my only ladle and scoops the delicious smelling thing, which I think is some kind of soup.
It has a golden broth that he adds extra to our bowls before placing them on a breakfast-in-bed style tray I wasn’t aware I had, and then he plates up fresh buns. This man. Made fresh. Cheese buns.
“Umm…” unsure what to say, to feel, I look to Noah for guidance.
“You just have to tell me what you want to drink. No fretting.” He rubs away the worry lines on my face with his thumb, and I bite the inside of my cheek anxiously instead.
“Water?”
“Good. Now back to bed with you.” He ushers me away, and I go back down the hall to my room and crawl into my bed like a kid waiting for Christmas to come. I watch as Noah enters just moments after I do, tray in hand, steam wafting up off the bowls and two bottles of water, one in either corner.
Noah tells me about what he’s made while I eat.
A rich, hearty chicken and brown rice soup.
It’s loaded with an intense broth, slightly spicy, with celery and carrots: all things I know won’t cause me to feel like I am dying.
Food is a big trigger for my HS, things like nightshades (tomatoes and peppers being the worst) and sugar and all things good and carb-y in life can cause a flare if I am not careful.
I am not as great about keeping up with it as I should be, I try my best to stay away from most of them.
You will never find me giving up cheese though.
I refuse. Especially when the cheese buns Noah makes are officially my new favourite food. Ever.
“What sorcery are these?” I say around a mouthful of ooey-gooey cheese inside and out of the bun, savoury garlic butter and herbs on top. I think I’m in love. With the buns. Definitely just the buns.
He laughs, pulling apart his own bun, and taking small bites, “They’re my sister's recipe.”
“Does she sell them?”
“She should. I’ve been trying to convince her for forever.” Noah starts into a full conversation about Sienna, her parents’ disapproval of her choices, her pregnancy, her husband encouraging her. But as Noah said, only Sienna can decide to do anything for herself.
“So, you’re going to make these any time you’re over, right?”
“Maybe even when you come over to mine.” He agrees with a grin.
Our conversation is lighthearted, airy, and fun. The rest of the night is like this, and when I curl into Noah again, I’m relieved when he settles in and stays. His fingers skate across my skin, figure eighting and eliciting goosebumps in their wake. He kisses my forehead and sighs contently.
This. I could get used to this. It has been so long since I’ve been with someone who wanted to just be with me.
Someone who doesn’t need explanations, someone who understands when words aren’t enough.
But I want to tell him everything. I want him to have the full picture, to know what he’s getting into.
He deserves that, to make his own decisions, and I wouldn’t judge him in the slightest whatever he decides.
I know if I don’t tell him, it will only eat away at me.
It’s been so long since I told someone about my chronic illness, and tried to explain what happens, why I am the way I am.
It’s terrifying, but it needs to be done.
So, in the dark of the night, I shift a little to sit up and look at Noah in the dim light coming from the bathroom out in the hallway.
Noah looks sleepy, pliant, relaxed, but awake.
He sits up, resting back on his elbows when he realizes that I am unsettled by something.
“Georgie?” he says, watching me pick at my fingers.
I press my lips together, meeting his gaze, the disgruntled, adorably cute, furrowed brows.
“I want to tell you… what’s going on. All of it.
I don’t normally do that with people. But I want to.
I want to get it all out there, and then you can decide what you want to do.
I don’t want you to hold back. I don’t want you to lie and say you understand if you don’t.
It’s a lot, I’m a lot, and I won’t judge you or be upset if you decide you don’t want to continue things with me, but I’d rather know now than get my heart broken later.
So, if I talk, you listen, ask questions if you have them, and tell me what you’re thinking, regardless of if you think it will hurt my feelings. Got it?”
His face looks puzzled, like he’s trying to figure out a jigsaw. But then he smiles, and he pulls me close. He doesn’t let go. “Yes. Yes, to all of that. But I’m not going anywhere. And I don’t need to know right now. All I care about is that you’re taken care of. So let me do that, okay?”
When I don’t move, don’t breathe, trying to comprehend that he’s just said all these things, he pulls me down to him and presses a kiss to my forehead. My nose. My lips. “Georgie, let me take care of you. Please.”
Face to face like this, it’s impossible not to feel every emotion at once looking into his eyes. And damn it, I kiss him, and I feel him melt into me and I am so damn gone I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to.
He wants to take care of me, he wants to stay, and I am just crazy enough to let him.