Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
Maddie
When I wake up, it’s late afternoon, and Ewan is still here. One thing is different, though. He washed his hair and changed into clean pajama pants and a clean T-shirt. And he’s in my bed.
“How long was I asleep?”
He shrugs. “Long enough that I was starting to worry if I should wake you up to eat and take your flu meds.”
Slowly, I sit up in the bed and notice the tray next to me on the nightstand.
“I don’t know if I can eat anything. I still feel like shit.”
He picks up the remote and clicks on the TV. “Take your time. I’ll be here.”
I’m so full of post-nasal drip that the thought of food makes me nauseous, but then I taste the soup, my attitude fixes itself instantaneously. I’m ravenous, and the soup is delicious. “When did you learn how to cook?”
“It’s either that or eat frozen divorced-guy dinners, and that was never an option for me. I figured it out. Which Housewives do you want to watch?”
“I don’t have satellite or streaming. I don’t have time to watch TV, so I cancelled everything,” I say.
His eyes on the TV, Ewan is scrolling through all the apps. “You didn’t answer the question. Scary Island, here we go.”
“I don’t have…wait a minute. I could have sworn I cancelled that…”
He turns on my all-time favorite episodes of New York and gestures for me to keep eating the soup. “You must have a free trial or something.”
That can’t be right. “But if they have my credit card information, now I have to re-cancel at the end of the month.”
Ewan blows out a breath. “Fine. I signed you into my account. For all the streaming services.”
I look at him, the soup spoon halfway to my mouth. “You didn’t have to. But thank you.”
He shrugs. “You need something to stare at while you rest and recover.”
My ex-husband is here. Using my shower and evidently brought an overnight bag, though I don’t see evidence of it anywhere in my room when I scan the space.
I guess we’ll discuss that later.
For now, I appreciate him feeding me and giving me his streaming passwords.
But instead of staring at the TV, I stare at his profile while I take a bite of crusty, buttered toast. I smile as I notice more little things.
The tiny hairs on the backs of his hands and fingers are more prominent now.
His ears look a little different. The throat, the forearms, the hands all look more, well, grown.
He always was lean and muscular when we were together, but now Ewan has filled out differently.
The spot where I used to lay my head, right at the collarbone, looks like it could belong to someone else. Not in a bad way, just different.
Ewan was always hot, but he grew up even hotter.
Something flutters in my lower belly.
“Have you been staying at the motor lodge?” I ask.
He turns to me. “Are you going to eat the soup or do I have to spoon-feed you?”
I take one more bite, then take the pill with some Pedialyte to wash it down. All the while, Ewan watches me with those dark eyes.
“Bossy, much?”
“You bring it out of me,” he says, smiling.
I finish the bread and take a bite of the apple. “That’s all I can eat right now,” I say. “Thanks for everything. Really. But I think I’m going to go back to sleep. You can go back to the motor lodge.”
Ewan stares at me. “You’re still cute and delusional as ever. Go ahead and snooze. I’m camped out. And no, I’m not staying at the motor lodge.”
I’m too tired to argue about this. I’m too sick to put up a fight about him being in my bed.
“You’re going to get the flu,” I tell him.
“I had the jab; don’t worry about me.”
My eyes drift closed. “You have an answer for everything.”
I feel him move in the bed, removing the tray, adjusting the blankets. The overhead light shuts off. The volume of the TV lowers. The mattress sinks as Ewan climbs back onto the bed.
“The ski lodge?”
“No,” he says.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. Stalker.”
I roll to my side, away from him, and drift off.
A warm hand brushes my hair away from my face. Lips touch my temple. A kiss. My estranged husband is kissing me on the head.
Okay. I’m sure that’s normal in Bizarro World.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t like it.
A coughing fit disrupts me for a moment, and Ewan isn’t bothered. His strong hand caresses my back until it passes.
It’s easy to accept how he makes me feel when I’m sick. I’ll just have to get over it once I’m better and he goes back to wherever he came from.
This is not the same feelings as having my girlfriends fussing over me and bringing me snacks and camping out on my bed for an impromptu sleepover when they’re worried about my mental health.
It’s quite another thing when I haven’t had physical contact with someone I was attracted to for over a decade, and now the only person I ever cared to have that physical touch from is in here, stroking my hair, pressing his lips to my skin, caressing my back as I cough my ever-loving lungs out.
Once I calm down and nestle back into sleep mode, Ewan settles in behind me, so close that his body heat radiates against my back. The comforting caresses never stop. I recognize the fact that I don’t want them to stop. I’m sure it’s the flu or the medicine talking, but I could get used to this.
The last thing I hear is, “I don’t have all the answers. It only took me eleven years to figure out one of them.”