Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
Maddie
I open my eyes and realize three things:
One, my fever’s broken, and I’m not woozy anymore.
For the second time in two months, I’m in a hospital bed and hooked up to an IV.
And three, someone is asleep in the chair in my room.
The figure is slumped to one side, facing the window.
I’m too tired to lie to myself anymore. I know exactly who this is.
My voice is dry as the Sahara when I say his name.
“Ewan?”
The slumped figure twitches awake and sits up straight, instantly alert. He always had this way of throwing off sleep immediately, as if someone stuck a quarter into him.
“You’re awake,” he croaks.
I stare at the man I haven’t seen since he walked out the door to move to Fort Bragg at age 19.
He’s aged in so many ways, starting with the premature salt-and-pepper at his temples.
It’s barely noticeable, but it’s there. Ewan has lost the puppy fat from his teen years in his face, pushing out the jawline and cheekbones.
His eyes seem darker and deeper set. The enviable dark lashes are still there, making women jealous, and the brows are a bit unruly.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him. “How did they let you in?”
“Easy. I told them I was your husband,” he says with the same boyish grin I remember.
“Charming, as I haven’t seen you in forever,” I say, rasping a laugh and turning onto my side to face him. “How did you know I was in the hospital?”
“My dog found you lying on your porch,” he says.
I blink at him. The memory comes flooding back. That’s right. I was feeling like shit. I hadn’t picked up my Tamiflu and decided to take a nap right there in the doorway after I took a tumble.
But how did he find me? When did he get a dog?
These and a dozen other questions fight to be the first to come out.
But the one that wins is: “You’ve been keeping an eye on me, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“It was you at the Valentine’s Day Dance.”
“It was me,” Ewan confirms.
“Why didn’t you just tell me you came to see me?”
“I tried to. I heard the power went out, so I went to find you. But then you saw me and passed out.”
I shake my head. “I knew I wasn’t going crazy.”
“I was. That Foster guy put his hands on you, and I was ready to explode.”
Foster? He was jealous of Foster?
I’m not even going to justify this with an explanation.
“Sir, you haven’t been in my life for 11 years, and this is what you want to do right now? Pick a fight over a situation you know nothing about?”
“No,” he says softly. “A fight is the last thing I want. But I regret not getting to you first. I regret not being the one to rush you to the hospital.”
Is he joking? “You haven’t been around to look after me in over a decade, so you don’t have the right to get all protective now.”
It’s the same old same old. One of us gets jealous. The other one deflects. Both of us get worked up, and either have makeup sex, or we both walk away, and I slam a door.
But now is not the best time for makeup sex, seeing as I’m very sick.
“You’re right. I don’t have the right to be protective of you,” he replies.
I look at him and sigh. Something else is different. The youthful petulance has gone out of him. He’s matured, it seems. At least, that’s what he wants me to think.
“You should go. I don’t want you to catch the virus,” I tell him.
With a lift of his eyebrows that nearly does me in, he says, “Not happening.” Those charming forehead lines just did something to me.
I must be out of my mind.
I used to love it when Ewan got annoyed with me for telling him not to fuss over me.
When we were good, he always went out of his way to make sure I had everything I needed: bringing me my favorite drink at a party, packing extra snacks on a long drive, filling up the tank in my car without being asked.
Even when we weren’t good, he would still do these things. He’d just do them mad.
I smile, remembering how turned on I would get when he would have that scowl on his face throughout all the small acts of service I never asked him to do.
He’s not scowling, now. He’s just telling me the facts. He’s not going anywhere until I’m better.
It’s so out of line, keeping an eye on me, knowing where I go and who I associate with, but not bothering to call or text.
Okay, maybe these facts make my stomach do a little somersault. It might be my most toxic trait that I’m a tiny bit satisfied that my ex been watching me live my life, start a business, be involved in my hometown, hang out with friends, go to the gym, and generally be awesome.
All the while, Ewan is doing what?
Not trimming his eyebrows, for starters.
In fact, there are small tells everywhere that he’s not been taking care of himself.
His eyes are bloodshot. His neck desperately needs a shave, and he needs to wash his hair.
He’s wearing the same The Roots T-shirt he wore under his high school graduation robe, only now it’s so worn down it’s almost see-through and stretched out over his filled-out biceps and chest.
Ewan’s hands are aged and scarred way beyond what they should be at 31. Those jeans have seen better days, and don’t even get me started on the Crocs. His style certainly hasn’t changed from his teen years.
“You look like shit,” I say.
He gives me a half grin. “Said the lady in a hospital gown with her ass crack hanging out.”
“Rude,” I say, adjusting the blanket and making sure all skin is covered, which it is. He was pulling my leg.
I make a face. “When was the last time you slept?”
Is his chin trembling? His hands seem fidgety. “When was the last time you ate more than a salad and half a crouton?” Ewan asks, his voice cracking.
“Well, you don’t have to stalk me to know that. My diet hasn’t changed since we were teens,” I reply with a smirk.
Then, something strange happens that I’m not prepared for. Ewan leans forward and plants his elbows on his knees, and buries his face in his hands.
I stare at him, not sure if he’s just tired or sick of my bullshit.
“Madison Ruth Hayes, we’re not doing this.” His stomach undulates under his too-small shirt. The sound that leaks from his lungs is something between a wheeze and a groan. What the hell is going on?
He called me by my married, legal name. He does that when I scare the shit out of him, which is usually on the daily when I do something I don’t have the skills for and haven’t bothered to research.
He used my full government name when I went into the attic to catch the squirrel that had somehow burrowed its way in through the vents.
I keep my trap shut and wait.
Finally, after what feels like full minutes, he straightens up and looks at me. Ewan’s face is red and puffy, and his eyes are shining. Has he been…crying?
Never in my life did I ever think I’d see the day.
“Ewan, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m fine.”
“No. You’re not,” he says. Unlike back in the day, he says it softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t say you’re fine. I don’t want to hear it. You are going to rest until you’re better. If your doctor says you’re good to go back to work in a week, too damn bad, because it’s going to be two weeks after that.”
I blink at him. “Ewan.”
“And,” he goes on, “If you don’t like me staying on your ass every minute while you heal, then you can suck it up, buttercup.”
I listen while he lays out the plan. I don’t protest, and I don’t interrupt. He needs to get this all out. Perhaps he needs to get this all out of his system before he feels I’m out of the danger zone and we can go back to our regularly scheduled lives.
When he’s finished, a woman dressed in business casual and a hospital ID lanyard knocks on the door.
“Hi there,” she says, smiling at Ewan and me. “I’m Denise from billing and…oh, okay.”
“I…what?” I’m so confused by the way she’s looking at Ewan.
“Hi Denise,” he says with a smile, already filling out a check.
“Um, what’s going on here?” I ask. Was that jealousy in my voice? No, that’s crazy.
“Denise and I go way back,” Ewan says. “How much do we owe for this visit?”
Denise tells us the amount, and I’m ready to fall out of bed.
But Ewan is cutting a check.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Paying the bill.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m your husband, and even if I weren’t, you won’t stop me.”
He didn’t say can’t. He said won’t.
And he’s right. I can put up a fight, but in the end, I won’t stop him from trying to help.
“Not that I’m trying to accumulate debt or anything, but how come I never got a bill from the last time I ended up in the ER?” I ask her.
Denise taps words into the chunky little medical laptop she carries around. “Let me see…oh. That’s because your ER visit was already paid for before you left last time.”
“By whom?”
She looks at the check and looks at the screen. “Your husband.”
I look back at Ewan, but he’s stuffing his checkbook into his backpack—the same L.L. Bean one he’s had since kindergarten. Some things never die.