Chapter 13 - Mona
MONA
On Wednesday morning I wake up when the bed shifts.
Blinking in the mostly dark room, I see that Douglas is sitting on the side of the bed. “Is’t morning already?” I mumble.
He looks back at me. “It’s almost six.”
“What happened to the night?”
As my mind clears of sleep, I remember exactly what happened to the night before.
Douglas and I stayed up late, listening to Christmas music and talking by the fireplace as we roasted marshmallows and made s’mores (my idea, of course).
When we finally got to bed, we took turns bringing each other to orgasm with our hands and mouths.
It was a lengthy, deliciously pleasurable process, so it was much later than normal when we finally went to sleep.
I loved it. Every minute of it.
But I really want to sleep in today.
“I’m going to run,” he says, leaning backward and twisting slightly so he can give me a quick kiss. “You stay in bed.”
“I shouldn’t be lazy.”
“There’s not a lazy bone in your body, but you don’t have to get up in the dark to get going.”
“Why do you have to get up and going so early?”
“Because that’s who I am. That’s what I do.”
I frown at him from my pillow as he hefts himself to his feet. “That’s a ludicrous amount of self-discipline you have. What’s wrong with waiting until eight to run? Or even—imagine this—not running at all one day?”
He chuckles softly as he pulls on his running clothes. “If a morning ever comes when I don’t run first thing in the morning, you’ll know that everything in the world has changed. I’ve lived fifty-two years as this person, darling.”
I smile at him because his tone is light and amused. “I know you have. And I happen to really like that person. But still… You can occasionally go a little easier on yourself.”
“Maybe.” He leans over to kiss me again. “But today is not that day.”
I huff and flop back onto the bed as he puts on his socks and shoes and leaves the room.
It doesn’t matter. I don’t know why it’s even bothering me today that he’s so mercilessly disciplined. I know this is him. And his self-control is part of why he’s so unfailingly kind and considerate.
He never lashes out in anger. He never falls into unthinking selfishness.
But he also never makes choices purely because they will make him happy.
That’s why the door to a future with him—a serious romantic relationship—is still closed despite the incredible two weeks we’ve had together, despite how good we are together.
It’s fine. I knew this truth about him when I started down this road. I wanted to spend time with him—get closer to him—despite the end I knew was coming. And it’s fine.
I wouldn’t trade this month for anything even though I already know I’m going to be sad and lonely and missing him every moment when January comes.
With a long sigh, I turn over onto my side and go back to sleep.
* * *
Our plan for the day is to drive to a Christmas market about an hour away, have lunch there, and browse around before returning home.
I’ve been to this particular market for several years in a row, and I’ve always enjoyed it, so I’m excited about the day. It got colder overnight, and it really feels like winter now. One of those chilly gray days we have so often in this area.
Everything goes well at first. I sing unreservedly with my favorite Christmas album on the drive there, making Douglas laugh and shoot me warm, fond looks. We have a good lunch of soup and sandwiches, and I enjoy the fact that everyone around us obviously assumes we’re a real couple.
I love that feeling even though I know it’s not real.
But near the end of lunch, Douglas starts to get quiet. When I see him taking a couple of ibuprofen pills before we leave, I demand the reason.
He tells me he’s getting a headache but shrugs it off.
A headache is not fun, but it’s also not the end of the world. He doesn’t want us to leave early, so we wander around the stands and tables, admiring crafts and tasting all kinds of holiday treats. I have a good time but gradually notice he’s not himself.
He’s often quiet, but this is different. It’s like part of him isn’t really here.
Finally I pull him off to the side and take both his hands in mine. “Douglas, tell me the truth right now. What’s wrong? Is it just the headache?”
“Yes,” he says, the tight control on his face flickering, revealing visible pain. “It’s getting worse. I’m sorry to spoil your day when you were looking forward to this.”
“Douglas Saxon-Barrington,” I tell him sternly, “I thought you were supposed to be brilliant. You really think I care about that if you’re not feeling well? Let’s go home.”
“Okay.” He closes his eyes, and I can see the headache on his face. “I could have toughed it out.”
“I’m sure you could have. I’d never cast aspersions on your ability to be stubborn. But I’m not going to enjoy myself if you have a headache, so let’s go home. I’ll drive.”
He makes a faint gesture toward objection but doesn’t put up an argument.
So I drive his very expensive SUV back to Green Valley, and I realize he must genuinely feel like crap because he doesn’t say a word the whole time.
He leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes, but he’s not sleeping.
He’s hurting, and I hate that for him.
When we get home, I try to make him go to bed but he won’t, so I get him to lie down on a couch in the library instead. I turn off lights and bring him water to drink.
He’s clearly uncomfortable both with his pain and at his vulnerability in lying down in the middle of the day like this. I want to pet and soothe him, but I’m sure that would make him feel worse.
Instead, I ask, “Do you often get headaches this bad?”
He shakes his head. “Not anymore. They’re migraines. I used to get them at least a couple of times a month, but for the past several years I only get them occasionally.” His eyes are closed as he talks. It looks like he can barely even open them.
“What set this one off, do you know?”
“The weather change, I think. Shifts in pressure sometimes do it to me. I was hoping to stave it off.”
“Do you have any other medication you can take?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Why the hesitation?”
“Because it makes me fuzzy and out of it for hours.”
“Isn’t that better than being in pain?”
“I guess. I just didn’t want to…”
“To what?” He so seldom trails off in conversation I assume he’s in too much pain to get the words out.
But then he finally goes on. “To lose the day.”
He didn’t want to lose the day.
I place a hand on my aching chest.
It’s December 17. We only have two weeks left.
And he didn’t want to lose one of those days.
I feel like crying with a heavy poignancy, but I don’t. I reach over and very gently brush the hair back from his forehead. “We’re losing today from either the headache or the medication. So can I get those pills for you?”
“Yes, sweetheart.” He sounds raspy and ill. “They’re in the cabinet in my bathroom. Labeled for migraines. Thank you.”
I hurry and find the pills. Help him lift his head enough to swallow them with some water. Then I close the blinds to make it even darker in the room and settle in a big chair across from him.
He’s restless at first. Obviously trying to get comfortable and find a position where his head isn’t killing him. After a while, he settles. I think he might even have fallen asleep.
At one point, however, he opens his eyes a little and turns his head in my direction.
“I’m right here.”
“Okay. Good.” He closes his eyes again.
“Do you need anything?”
“No.” He sounds like he’s on the cusp of sleep as he adds, “Just you.”
* * *
He sleeps all afternoon and into the evening. At around seven, he finally sits up. It takes him a few minutes to come back to his senses, but when he has, he says the migraine is better.
Not totally gone, but better.
Deeply relieved, I ask him if he can eat a little chicken soup—which I prepared in the slow cooker hours ago—and he says he’ll try it.
He gets up to go to the bathroom while I head down to the kitchen, and he appears much more alert when I return with our dinner.
He eats half a bowl of soup with a chunk of bread and seems a lot better when he’s done. He’s still kind of groggy, but he doesn’t look or sound so sick.
“What do you feel like doing?” I ask him after I’ve taken care of the dishes.
“I don’t know.”
“We could just watch a movie in bed if you want. I don’t feel like doing anything much either.”
“You’re sure? It’s not even eight thirty yet.”
“I know. But I’m really tired. And a movie in bed sounds good to me.”
“Okay.”
He’s gazing at me with an exhausted kind of tenderness that touches me so much I step over to give him a brief, gentle kiss.
I go to my own room to get ready for bed, and then I join him in his bedroom.
He’s already under the covers. He has an adjustable bed, and he’s raised the head to a good position for viewing the television, which has been on the wall the entire time although I’ve never once seen the thing turned on.
Oddly happy, I climb into bed beside him. He pulls me over so he can put an arm around me as I settle against him. We watch an old Christmas musical. He dozes off halfway through but wakes up again before the end.
I rub his chest through his pajama top and smile up at him. “You feel okay?”
“I feel a lot better. Thank you for today.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did.”
I’m feeling rather embarrassingly sappy, so I hide it by getting up to go to the bathroom. He’s lowered the bed and turned off the television when I return.
When I lie down beside him, he reaches over to take my hand, holding it as he goes back to sleep.
* * *
The next morning I wake up with the unexpected sensation of being smothered.
It takes a minute to sort through why this is, but I eventually realize Douglas is lying on top of me.