Still The One

Chapter 14

14

EVE CASSIDY

I’ve spent the last morning picking up items from the shopping list Nurse Chelsea gave me. Shower seat, a cane, and my own addition at Matty’s suggestion – a bidet.

Yes, he could have gone to a hotel but my stupid heart spoke for me. Honestly, I’m a little worried about how this is going to go down. Recently it’s been easy to leave the hospital when visiting hours are over and detach myself from the situation, but with him in my apartment, it’s going to be all Foster, all the time.

Also, Dr Sully wrote a note to my boss and she’s approved two additional weeks off to care for my new patient. She sent me a text this morning and said I was an absolute saint of a person to take this on, but considering this experience might kill me, I feel more like a martyr.

After what feels like an endless few hours waiting on discharge paperwork, we finally reach the lobby of my ancient apartment building. Foster stands beside me, his clothes rumpled and disheveled from the hospital stay. He wears a pair of blue scrub pants, and the black T-shirt and slides Matty brought him yesterday when they thought he was flying home. His tired eyes scan the lobby, taking in the marble floors and wall of locked mailboxes.

His right hand rests heavily on a cane, as he looks at the elevator with dismay. ‘This thing still doesn’t work?’

‘Yeah, well, my landlord is more concerned about him living the good life, not his tenants. Hmm… how are we going to do this?’ I ask myself, staring up the stairs.

As I look back at Foster, I can see the clear signs of pain etched on his face. I rack my brain, trying to come up with a plan to get him to the third floor quickly. Easily.

‘While I think, you walk, it’ll get the blood flowing.’

‘Walk where?’ he asks.

‘Um, to the mailboxes and back, five times.’

‘Five times?’ he moans, but does it, slowly.

Suddenly, an idea strikes me – I pull my phone out of my pocket and navigate to Phil’s contact. I press the speaker button, hoping he’s home.

‘What’s up, sugar?’

‘I’m in the lobby, and I need your help.’

‘Lawd, honey, don’t tell me you bought another new mattress. It’s too soon! That thing almost killed us last time. Pivoting wasn’t enough. I thought you’d end up squashed against a wall before you even slept on it.’

That was a complete fiasco. I regret not ordering one of those mattresses that come in a compact, rectangular box. Instead, I bought it locally, refused to pay extra for delivery, and got it home myself, just barely.

‘It’s not a mattress this time; it’s a man.’

‘A man?’ he asks quizzically. ‘For me?’

‘No.’

‘For you?’ He perks up. ‘Oh, honey, finally! I was beginning to wonder if the Sahara Desert had taken root in your undergarments.’

Foster’s deep, rumbling chuckle fills the air, causing his broad shoulders to shake with amusement as he walks. He tilts his head down coyly and hastily wipes the smirk off his lips as soon as my gaze meets his.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says, another laugh escaping his lips.

‘No one here needs to know a thing about my undergarments,’ I say, my tone firm and unwavering as if scolding two misbehaving children. ‘Our arrangement is clinical, and what goes on in my panties is private.’ My words hang in the air, thick with tension and unspoken emotions. The weight of our past interactions lingers between us, threatening to break through the facade of professionalism I am trying to maintain. But I can’t let that happen – this is strictly business.

‘Oh, this sounds interesting! I’ll be right down, sweets!’ Phil says enthusiastically before the phone goes silent.

Foster clears his throat, the sound echoing through the lobby. A hint of amusement dances in his voice as he speaks. ‘Clearly it’s a touchy subject, but I can’t resist asking. Has the Sahara Desert taken up in your pants?’ His eyes sparkle with mirth, and a sly grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.

I glare, shoving my phone into my back pocket. ‘I can confirm, it has not.’

‘Also, I thought you hated pet names, Jellybean?’ he asks, while still on lap number three.

‘I do hate pet names, Mr Wonka. However, much like you, Phil doesn’t care about that because that’s just how he speaks. Everyone is honey to him, even you – just wait.’

‘Will I also be sugar? ’Cause I sort of like that one.’

‘Careful, he likes the masculine type.’

‘Are you saying Phil isn’t your boyfriend?’

I laugh. ‘In the same way Kait and Jess are my girlfriends, yes. To speak your language, we’re bros, brah.’

A low rumble of laughter fills the hall, but the lines on his face betray a tinge of annoyance. ‘I can assure you, I have never once uttered the term “brah”,’ he retorts.

I look him over, wishing he weren’t so frickin’ handsome right now. There’s not much to pick on. Not that I want to roast the guy – he’s been through enough recently – but it’s going to be hard to set rules for our game of house considering we’ve done just about everything two people in love could ever do, and now we’re supposed to dance around it and be patient and nurse.

I spent last night painfully overthinking how to handle this situation. I’ve decided I need to set some boundaries here – no more flirting. I suspect flirting will lead to places we’ll never return from, and I can’t take the heartache.

‘You’ve never said “brah”?’

‘Nope.’

‘Well, the flat-bill hat on your head says otherwise.’

It’s puzzling to me how that particular item made its way into his personal belongings bag, while his clothes were left out. Sure, it’s part of the off-duty FMX boy uniform, but I thought for sure he’d have grown out of it by now.

He rolls his eyes. He’s always had the FMX rider look. He could pass for twenty-five instead of thirty-five, and not just with his looks. He’s got a young heart, mouth – and probably brain, if I had to guess by his condition right now.

The sound of someone jogging down the stairs relieves me a bit. Finally, a piece of my world that is familiar to me after weeks of chaos.

‘On my way, hon!’ Phil’s voice echoes through the hallway, announcing his arrival before we even catch a glimpse of him.

I quickly whisper to Foster as he meanders back to me from the mailboxes after his fifth lap, ‘Don’t react when you see him.’

‘Why?’ Foster asks. ‘Does he have two heads?’

‘No, he’s just… colorful.’

He grins. ‘I don’t judge, sugar. He could come down here wearing diamond-studded glasses and a rainbow suit, and I wouldn’t bat an eye.’

‘He’s not Elton John. But he’s also not many steps away from that.’

‘I like Elton,’ Foster murmurs.

‘Let’s see this ma—’ Phil stops mid-sentence as he begins to descend the last set of stairs, his eyes on Foster. I can’t blame him there.

While he’s not wearing the exact outfit Foster alluded to, he wasn’t far off. Instead, Phil’s clad head to toe in a bright neon orange sweatsuit, zipped halfway open to reveal a lush garden of chest hair. A sparkly bracelet on one wrist that matches the necklace shining around his neck completes the look. And if his outfit weren’t enough to catch your attention, his choice of shoes would surely do the trick – a pair of silver joggers that seem more fit for a disco than a jog.

Phil exudes an aura of confidence and flamboyance that is both impressive and slightly intimidating. The man is built like a Greek god, and despite the fact that he’s very clearly into men, women never pass up the opportunity to admire his good looks.

‘Well, well, well,’ he drawls, taking in Foster’s appearance with a critical eye before turning to me. ‘He is beautiful, darling.’ Suddenly he cocks his head. ‘But what’s with the bandages? Did you run him over?’ His words drip with sarcasm and amusement as he continues to scan Foster up and down like a piece of art.

A chuckle threatens to escape my lips, and I fight to stifle it. ‘No, but if I had, he deserved it,’ I tease, playfully nudging Foster’s arm.

Foster rolls his eyes in response. ‘It was a motorcycle accident.’

‘Oooh. You’re a daredevil; I like it. She needs some excitement in her life.’ Phil gives me an approving thumbs up while behind Foster. ‘Does he have a name, love?’

‘Foster.’

‘Foster…?’ He awaits the rest of his name.

‘Just the one name,’ Foster says. ‘Like Madonna.’

Phil’s face lights up with a smile that conveys his interest in the conversation. We seem to have hit all the right notes, sparking his curiosity and engaging his attention. Foster, on the other hand, appears relaxed and at ease despite being the object of a gay man’s unabashed admiration.

‘Alright then, Foster. Let’s get you upstairs,’ he says.

Without hesitation, he reaches out and grabs Foster’s hand, throwing his good arm over his shoulder. Together, they make their way up the stairs, Phil trying to take short breaks at each landing.

‘Where are we putting him?’ Phil asks.

‘In my room,’ I say.

Slight panic sets in as soon as the words leave my mouth. My tiny apartment is not equipped to handle a guest. I wasn’t lying when I told Matty that. My bed is too small for two people and my couch is uncomfortable at best. But I can’t bear to think of Foster suffering on my lumpy hand-me-down couch.

‘Your room?’ Foster asks, clearly confused.

Phil can’t contain his excitement and lets out a swoon. ‘Ohhh! He’s going in your bed?’ he exclaims. ‘This just keeps getting better and better.’

With each step, the tap of Foster’s cane echoes through the stairwell, a constant reminder of his injury. But he climbs determinedly, one step at a time, refusing to let it slow him down.

‘No, I’ve already uprooted your entire life. I don’t need your bed too,’ he declares, reaching the first landing and turning to face Phil. ‘I need a two-minute break,’ he says, his voice strong and resolute, but laced with pain, exhaustion evident in his eyes.

I stop at the landing with them. ‘Trust me when I say the couch would be a backward step in your healing. A few nights on that thing and you’ll need a chiropractor too.’

But Foster shakes his head, determination set in his features. ‘I can handle it.’

Phil looks at him with admiration, bordering on awe. ‘You definitely are a daredevil,’ he exclaims. ‘Do we need a second break?’ he asks between staircases.

Foster stands tall and defiant, shaking his head. ‘Not taking a break or your bed, and that’s the end of that conversation. Let’s keep going.’

‘We made it!’ I say proudly, turning the key in my door.

I push it open, gesturing for Phil and Foster to enter first. Phil walks in confidently and Foster follows closely behind, his steps hesitant and uncertain.

‘Have you ever been here before, or will this be your first time in Evie’s bed?’

‘I’m familiar with her bed, but put me on her couch,’ Foster says, side-eyeing me with amusement.

I’d only just rented this apartment when he and I met. So he was familiar with my bed five years ago and as I mentioned earlier, this bed is brand new. A Foster-free bed – until now.

‘Phil,’ I say sternly. ‘Put him in my bed.’

‘Evie,’ Foster pleads, looking at me with puppy dog eyes. ‘You can’t sleep on the couch in your own apartment.’

For a second, my mind races with memories of past nights spent in his arms. If he’s suggesting we sleep in the same bed, that’s way too risky.

‘I’ve already decided. Plus, you’re sort of at my mercy, so, don’t make me be mean?’ I say, like I could ever be mean.

He heaves a sigh, nodding his head like he’s a sore loser. ‘To her bed, I guess,’ he says.

Phil turns his head swiftly, his eyes widening in amazement as he lets out a gasp. ‘Why have I never heard of him before?’ he asks, leading Foster the short distance from my living room to my bed, sitting his butt first and then helping get his legs up.

‘It’s a story I don’t like to tell,’ I say, watching Foster frown. ‘Comfy?’ I ask him, adjusting the pillows behind his head as he sits back.

‘No,’ he admits.

‘A story you don’t like to tell?’ Phil asks. ‘You better get over it because it’s a story I want to hear all about. Spill the tea, sister. It can’t be Cowardly Cayden bad.’

Foster’s gaze suddenly snaps at the mention of the name Cayden. His brow furrows in confusion and he speaks up, his voice laced with surprise.

‘Who’s Cayden?’

‘Just another ex I’d rather not remember.’

‘Another ex?’ Phil asks. ‘Wait, is this one an ex too, or just a one-nighter?’

‘Husband,’ says Foster.

‘Ex-husband,’ I say, as Foster and I speak in unison.

Phil lifts a single eyebrow. When his gaze meanders back to Foster, he looks confused. ‘Why are you wearing scrub pants?’

‘He’s from Florida,’ I say.

‘And scrubs are on trend there?’

‘He has nothing with him.’

Phil rubs his chin, clearly concerned. ‘What are you, six foot? A size large?’

Foster nods.

‘I’ll set him up.’

Foster shakes his head, his eyes fixed on Phil’s bright orange sweatpants. ‘No, no. No need to do that,’ he says firmly. ‘I can order the things I need from Target or some other store and have them delivered.’

‘Nonsense,’ Phil says, waving a hand. ‘That’s a process, darling, and it seems like you have enough on your plate. It’s no problem at all. I’ll be back in a jif.’ He exits my bedroom, me following close behind.

‘Thanks, Phil,’ I say, dropping my keys and purse on the counter.

Instead of trotting off to his apartment, he turns, stopping the door from closing with one hand. ‘I’m going to want to hear the details of this ex-husband I knew nothing about, so when I come back, I’ll have wine – be ready.’

‘It’ll take at least two bottles for that story.’

‘I’ll bring three,’ he says with a gleeful smile. Phil loves gossip. So, with that settled, he disappears down the hall and toward his apartment, two doors down.

I close my front door, walk into my room, and turn to Foster. ‘Are you comfortable? Do you need adjusting or more pillows?’

‘Pain meds. Bring me the pain meds,’ he moans.

I glance at my Apple watch, then shake my head. ‘Sorry, mister. You’ve got another hour before those are due. I’ve got a schedule.’ I grab the discharge paperwork from my dresser and flash it before him.

‘When’s my sponge bath?’ he asks coyly.

I scan the paperwork. ‘Oh, they seem to have forgotten that order. Too bad.’

He frowns.

‘Also, I’ve got one rule while you’re here.’

‘Hit me with it,’ he says.

‘No flirting in my apartment.’

He cocks his head, giving me a ‘you can’t be serious’ stare. ‘I’ve been flirting with you since the day we met. I don’t even know how to speak to you without doing it.’

‘I guess it’s a good thing you’ll be asleep a lot then, huh?’ I say with a laugh. ‘Just behave, alright? And don’t make it weird.’

‘No promises there,’ he says, leaning his head back against the pillows and closing his eyes.

‘Here’s the remote.’ I open the bedside table drawer and set it on his chest. ‘Watch whatever, but the doctor said to sleep as much as you can, so you can either go quietly or…’ I grab another pillow, slowly lowering it toward his face.

‘Or you’ll put me to sleep? Nice.’ He chuckles.

‘I’ll fill your water cup.’ I grab the hospital-issued plastic cup.

‘Can you fill it with vodka? I hear drinking with pain meds makes them work better.’

‘OK, new rule – no drinking while you’re here,’ I laugh. ‘But I could poison it with anti-freeze? Interested?’

His usually upbeat face (because he can be Mr Sunshine at times – annoying) drops, and he goes serious.

‘You don’t actually hate me, right?’ His words carry a tinge of sadness and apprehension.

I take a deep breath, letting out a heavy sigh as I settle down near his feet, positioning myself to face him.

‘You heard that, huh?’ I ask, thinking back to my phone conversation with Jess recently. I’m surprised it took him this long to ask about it.

He nods.

‘Truthfully, Fost, this has been such a whirlwind that I haven’t had a chance to properly evaluate my feelings yet, because I never expected to see you again.’

‘Everything about us has been whirlwind-style, right from jump,’ he says, lifting his good shoulder in a shrug like he just can’t help it.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Because of that, I can confirm that I thought I hated you. I say I hate you. You’re not my favorite person on the planet any more. But then you were suddenly in my trauma room and things I thought were settled suddenly feel complicated.’

He nods, as if he understands. And maybe he does?

‘I’ll take that,’ he murmurs in a low voice, his eyes half-closed. ‘For the record, in the future, when I’m not high on morphine, and you’re not feeling overly complicated, we should probably have a conversation.’

I look at him with curiosity. ‘I’m OK with us not rehashing the past.’

Before I can exit the room, he grabs my hand. ‘Evie… thank you – for doing this. I’ll repay you somehow.’

I nod. ‘I know, Fost. I’ll wake you up for meds, OK?’

‘’Night, Jellybean.’

Why is my heart palpitating? Is it Foster? Or maybe the stress is finally going to do me in? I don’t have long to think about it because within minutes, Phil is back.

‘Knock, knock, love,’ he says, opening my door and inviting himself in.

He’s pulling a suitcase behind him, and a vase of daisies that I know was on his kitchen counter is in one hand. He gives it to me. ‘Be a dear and put these in his room? Flowers help with healing, this much I know. Now, give me a sec and I’ll be right back with the wine.’

‘Always the hostess, aren’t you?’

I sneak into my room, setting the daisies on my dresser. They remind me of the flowers I carried during Foster’s and my wedding. Sigh. Don’t start thinking of those moments yet. I glance at Foster, lying in my bed, fast asleep, soft snoring flooding the room. Yet I feel content with him here? Almost like I’ve missed him? Have I?

I exit my room, as Phil walks in bear-hugging three bottles of wine against his chest. I unzip the bag he packed for Foster, pulling things out one by one, and stacking them on my kitchen counter while he works on opening the wine.

‘These are some very colorful choices,’ I say to Phil with a giggle.

The vibrant colors of the leggings catch my eye. A bright purple pinstripe pair. A Hawaiian gift-shop-inspired design. And a lovely pink floral print. The extra underwear is also a sight to behold, featuring a range of eye-catching Technicolor tighty whities. Among the T-shirts, one stands out with the bold phrase: ‘I look good. Real good’ printed across the front. Phil even included all the necessary toiletries and hair products, though I suspect I’ll be the one using those since Foster has never been interested in styling his hair beyond a quick brush-through.

‘I have a feeling that boy is built like an Abercrombie underwear model under those scrubs and sling. Am I right?’

I let out a heavy exhale at that image. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I say, grabbing the red wine he just opened, and taking a swig straight from the bottle. ‘Are you going to be offended if I don’t use a glass? These past couple of weeks have felt like an eternity.’

‘Of course not,’ he says, maneuvering the corkscrew in another bottle, the pop sound filling the air as he pulls the cork. Without hesitation, he tips it up, taking a long swallow, skipping the need for glasses altogether.

‘Talk,’ he says, tapping his bottle to mine, then sitting back in anticipation of new gossip.

‘So, Foster and me…’