14. Brook
Did he come back for me?
Not that it in any way redeems him for the time when he didn’t come, but tired, nauseated me is relieved he’s here now.
Even though I don’t want him to see me like this. God, I must look like a mess. And still, the way he’s looking at me feels like he cares.
Like I’m not alone.
“Of course I came. Sorry, my phone was off.” He scoops me up. “Let’s get you to bed.”
I put my head on his chest and let him carry me. I’ve been puking my guts out since lunch. I guess eating yesterday’s takeout wasn’t in my best interests.
“I feel like shit.”
“You don’t say.” He sits me on my bed, and I immediately drop to my side.
He disappears into the bathroom and gets me a glass of water. “Take only small sips. I’m going to check Mom’s medicine cabinet to see if I can get you something to hydrate you.”
I close my eyes.
I shiver and squint. The house is silent and the light is dimmer. Did I fall asleep? Baldo carried me to my bed and then went somewhere… but now I’m covered.
Another wave of shivers runs through me, and I whimper, disoriented.
“I’ve got a bucket here for you.” His voice is like medicine, lacing my insides with a security blanket.
For years, every time I got sick, I was all alone. I wasn’t close enough with any of my so-called friends to call them when I fell ill.
My family was across the ocean. And my boyfriends? Well, they certainly didn’t stick around for the for worse or in sickness parts of the relationship.
Baldo sits at the foot of the bed. He changed clothes. His biceps are bulging from his long-sleeved black T-shirt.
“Did I fall asleep?”
“You dozed off for ten minutes. Do you need to…?” He gestures to the floor.
I follow his gaze, and sure enough, he did prepare a bucket for me. “No, I think I got it all out. I feel like a steam roller ran over me. I’m sure I look like it.” I groan.
“You always look beautiful to me.” He runs his hand over my ankle. Even through the blanket, it sends shudders through my body.
You always look beautiful to me. I don’t know how to digest his words. And not only because my digestion is seriously impaired now.
“Even when I cut my hair in middle school?”
He snorts. “God, you looked like a wet sparrow.”
I giggle weakly. “What was I thinking?” I shiver.
“You need to change that sweaty T-shirt before you’re strong enough to shower.” He stands up and walks to my closet. I follow him with my heavy gaze.
You always look beautiful to me. Even in my poor state, the confession tugs at my heart.
“What is this?”
I blink to focus on his line of vision. My red strapless dress, with a slit down the entire length of the body-hugging skirt, hangs by the door.
“It’s the dress I didn’t get to wear tonight.”
“Thank God,” he mutters.
“You don’t like it?” I’d be offended if I wasn’t sick.
“If you think I would let you wear that to parade in front of other men, you’re wrong.”
I giggle. “Choosing my wardrobe for me now?”
He makes a sound deep in his throat like I’m a pain in his ass, but somehow this little display of possessiveness negates his brooding.
He returns with one of my T-shirts. I try to push to a sitting position but collapse back on to the bed. “I’ll change a bit later.”
“You can’t stay in your sweaty shirt. Let me help you.”
“No.”
Somehow the idea of him seeing me naked propels me to action and I sit up suddenly. My head swims and I gag.
“Christ.” The mattress dips and Baldo’s arms wrap around me. “Are you okay? I promise I won’t look.” He grabs the hem of my shirt.
“I’ll do it.” I try to find urgency in my weak state.
It’s not that I’m a prude, but I’m not ready to face certain things that would require explanation.
He stills for a moment, probably done with me and my weird reactions. “Okay, I’m letting go and turning around to give you privacy, but if you faint on me, I’ll be pissed.”
I didn’t even realize how heavily I was leaning on him. “That’s kind of hot.”
“You’re delirious.” He stands up and waits for a moment to see if I can sit by myself.
My brain swims, but only slightly.
When he sees I’m strong enough to sit, he turns around. “Hurry up.”
I switch the shirts and drop back onto my pillows, pulling the covers with me. “I’m decent.”
He nods, takes my glass and goes to the bathroom. “Mom had electrolyte powder. Let’s try to get some in you.”
He comes back holding the same glass, but the water in it is pink now and there is a straw in the drink. He helps me to take a few sips and puts the glass on the nightstand before returning to his spot at the foot of my bed, leaning against the brass footboard.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“It’s okay. Let’s hope the worst is over.”
“Not just for this, but for staying in New York for me. Helping me with the inheritance nonsense.”
His lips curve up slightly. He puts his hand on my ankle again but doesn’t move it anymore.
It anchors me somehow, in this strange bond we are forging and fighting at the same time.
“There were times I imagined seeing you again, but I never thought it would be under these circumstances. Your grandmother had a sick way of showing love.”
There were times I imagined seeing you again. So many times. And here we are acting like we never wished for it.
“She messed with our lives, did I tell you that?”
He shakes his head, and I recount what we learned from Rupert about Roberta’s meddling.
“Wow, I guess buying you a Christmas present was too ordinary for the old lady.”
“Right?” I chuckle. “But she got me thinking about my life. Like if I didn’t get into the writing program on my own merit—”
“Stop it right now. Doubting your achievements is counterproductive.”
“Oh, but I’m the queen of self-doubt.”
“That’s not the crown you should wear.”
“You never doubt yourself?”
“Not really.”
“That must be nice.”
“I’m not saying I have no irrational blocks driving my life. I guess I’ve just accepted them, and I’ve learned to dance with my limitations.”
Unlike me. I dance to outrun mine.
“Don’t overthink it. Roberta might have influenced your admission, but she didn’t write your assignments. If you were a mediocre writer, you wouldn’t have finished with honors.”
That startles me. “How do you know that I finished with honors?”
Something passes through his face, but it’s gone before I can recognize it. He shrugs. “I just assumed. Of course you were one of the best in your class.”
A part of me wants to push him, to understand what felt like a slip on his part, but I’m too weak and tired to fight him. Besides, I’m enjoying this fluid coexistence that reminds me of the times we were truly close.
“You’re full of compliments tonight. I should get sick more often.”
“God, no.”
“Can you give me another sip? I think I can keep it in.”
He moves up the bed and holds the straw to my lips. After he places the glass back, he brushes my hair from my forehead. His fingers linger, and neither of us moves.
I wish I could tell him more about me, ask him more about him.
Tell him about that night.
Ask him about that night.
Fill in the blanks and find some sort of liberation from the past wounds.
His feather-like touch melts my insides, making my pulse spike. How is it that even in my depleted state, he can still ignite a spark?
But the fear that the truth would break us apart prevails, pushing me toward my typical MO—avoid at all costs.
“Would you stay with me?”
“I married you, didn’t I?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
I think he knows I was referring to tonight, begging him to fill the loneliness, but his commitment, even in jest, feels somehow significant.
“Scoot over.” He lifts the blanket and slides in beside me.
He snakes his hand under me and rolls me on top of him. I tense, the feel of his solid body awakening every dormant cell in me. What’s going on?
“Relax, Brook.” He slides me to the other side of him. “Let’s keep you on this side, near the bucket.”
He manhandles me on to my side, so my back is to his chest, and covers us both. He’s not exactly spooning me, but being this close to him gets my mind firing in all different directions.
Well, one direction really. My body is fully awake after grazing across his, feeling every dip and valley of his amazing anatomy. And the package. Holy shit.
For some outlandish reason, my mind goes to this morning, and as much as I told myself to ignore it, I can’t. “Who is your darling?”
He makes a sound, like a snort or a disbelieving huff, I’m not sure. Not really the way to alleviate my insecurities.
“Good night, Brook.”
Shit. Why am I seeking reassurance? It’s not like we’re in a committed, monogamous relationship. I can’t expect that there are no women in his life.
Women would be acceptable, understandable, but if there is a woman… Does she know he married me? That he’s here with me? I focus on that last thought.
He’s here with me. He left the gala to care for me.
There is no way I can sleep now. I’m still tingly from the way he slid me across his body earlier. My mind is… confused, filled with feelings I don’t want to feel, and those I don’t understand.
* * *
A heavy weight is pushing me to the mattress and I’m so hot. Burning. I fidget under the burden, and a groan makes me look to my side.
Baldo’s arm is heavy across my chest, our legs tangled together. His face is relaxed, peaceful. It’s so outlandish to see him like that. He looks younger, like the boy who used to kiss me senseless in this bed.
He stirs a bit and I hold my breath. I don’t want him to wake up yet. I want to enjoy this while it lasts.
For sure, once he opens his eyes, we’ll find a way to spoil this rare moment of belonging.
He fidgets again, his hand instinctively finding my breast, cupping it. Okay then.
And is that…?
His hardness digs into my hip. Well, good morning to me.
Baldo flicks his finger back and forth over my nipple, and it salutes him eagerly. I stifle a moan and hold my breath.
“How are you feeling?” he rasps.
His eyes are still closed, but he doesn’t stop his gentle grazing.
“I think I’m hungry, so that’s a good sign.”
“Give me a minute.” His sleepy voice spreads through my chest and between my legs. “I’ll make you some toast.”
I squeeze my thighs together. Does he know he’s playing with my nipple? And why am I so hypersensitive to his soft touch? I didn’t even know I had erogenous zones around my breasts.
But then my body has been betraying me for years.
As if last night shifted something between us, Baldo kisses my temple, and while it’s not a lustful display, it certainly doesn’t feel brotherly.
“Okay, sweetheart, you really need to shower and brush your teeth.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands, and Baldo chuckles. He jumps out of bed and uses the bathroom.
“Don’t move until I get you something to eat, and more electrolytes. I don’t want you to faint in the shower.”
Still mortified, I don’t look at him, just hum something unintelligible, hoping somewhere on the way to the kitchen he’ll lose his memory.
“Brook.” His voice comes from the door, and I peek at him with one eye. “I’m glad you feel better.”
I cover my eyes with my forearm and groan.
Was I hoping to sleep with Baldo? Ever since he entered the kitchen a couple of weeks ago, if I’m being honest. Despite my better judgment.
Was this the scenario I envisioned? Definitely not.
But here we are, and other than the embarrassing morning breath and sweaty skin, somehow this was better than any alternative.
But something tells me this is only a temporary ceasefire, not a peace treaty.