2022 #2
Michael has one arm flung over his eyes and one leg hanging off the side, while Jackson is curled at the opposite end with his knees bent at an angle that can't possibly be comfortable, seemingly arranged that way solely to keep his feet out of Michael's face.
One of his shoes is still on. I have no idea where the other one went.
Neither of them would leave, and neither of them would take the chairs.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it.
Idiots.
My ridiculous, stubborn boys.
I nuzzle my head deeper into the pillow and watch them sleep until my eyes get heavy again.
***
The next time I wake, fingers are moving through my hair. It feels incredible. Slow, careful strokes from my forehead back through the tangled mess of my waves, repeated with the kind of patience that tells me whoever is doing it has been there for a while and isn't in any hurry to stop.
I open my eyes.
Jackson is sitting beside me.
The relief that moves across his face when he realizes I'm awake is so raw that it makes my chest hurt. There's a shadow along his jaw that wasn't there the last time I saw him, and his eyes look exhausted.
“Hi, baby,” he whispers.
My toes curl beneath the thin hospital blanket.
Fucking hell. Even half-dead, apparently.
I glance toward the other bed. Michael is still asleep, except now he's starfished across the full width of it like he paid for the room.
“Hi.” My voice barely makes it out, dry and cracked enough that I wince. I nod toward Michael. “You get kicked out of bed?”
Jackson's mouth curves, but the sound of my voice has already sent him reaching for the glass on the side table.
“Here.”
He brings the straw to my lips, sliding one hand carefully behind my head to help lift me.
“Small sips,” he murmurs. “Your throat's probably going to hurt.”
The water hits my tongue and tastes like salvation in a plastic hospital cup.
I intend to take small sips. I genuinely do. But the first swallow only makes me realize how thirsty I am, and my pulls get longer until I'm sucking air through the straw.
Jackson chuckles softly.
“More?”
I nod. “More. Please.”
“I've got you.”
He grabs a bottle from the table, uncaps it, and refills the cup before bringing the straw back to my mouth. “Want to try sitting up? I can raise the bed a little.”
“Thank you. Please.”
He finds the controls and slowly brings me upright, stopping twice to make sure I'm not dizzy before adjusting my pillows behind me.
Then he's fussing with the blanket, checking the IV line, moving the water closer, doing all the little things Jackson always does without seeming to realize he's doing them.
Caring for me.
He has always been so fucking good at caring for me.
And all I want to do is reach for him.
I want him in this bed with me. I want to curl into his chest, put my face against his neck and let him keep running his fingers through my hair. I want to kiss him again. I want to stop thinking about why I shouldn't and just stay wherever he is.
But wanting Jackson has never been the problem.
I can do that effortlessly.
It's everything that comes after wanting him that terrifies me.
He deserves someone his own age. Someone who can give him a good life without making him fight for every inch of it.
Someone who can become his wife and give him children and build something uncomplicated around him instead of handing him a woman with a tortured past, a possessive brother and enough baggage to fill the cargo hold of a fucking airplane.
Jackson is twenty-three years old. He has the entire world opening in front of him.
I will not let him decide I'm the edge of it.
“Good?” he asks, brushing a messy wave away from my face.
I nod and take another drink.
His hand doesn't leave.
Instead, his palm settles against my cheek.
My body betrays me before my brain can intervene. I lean into him, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth of his hand spreads over my skin, and his thumb strokes once beneath my eye.
God.
Just this.
Five minutes.
Let me have five fucking minutes where I don't have to be responsible for doing the right thing.
“You're awake!”
Michael's voice fills the room, causing Jackson's hand to disappear so quickly that the cool air that replaces it feels like another touch.
My eyes open, and he's already taken a step back toward the window.
The distance isn't dramatic, maybe three feet, but it feels enormous.
“Jesus Christ, Rose.” Michael is out of bed and beside me in seconds, hair flattened on one side, shirt wrinkled, relief written all over his face as he leans down to kiss my forehead.
“How are you feeling? Are you dizzy? Nauseous? When did you wake up? Have you eaten anything? Did somebody get the nurse?”
“Michael.”
“What?”
“Breathe.”
“I've been breathing. You've been unconscious.”
“Clearly not anymore.”
“Don't be funny. You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
He starts fussing with the blanket that Jackson already fixed, then informs me, rather than asks, that I'll be staying at his place until I'm completely recovered. My opinion on the matter has evidently already been submitted and rejected.
I answer where answers are required. I reassure him when he needs reassuring. I even manage a smile when he threatens to personally supervise my fluid intake for the next month.
But my attention keeps drifting past him.
Jackson has moved to the window, giving Michael room to hover. He's quiet now, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, watching us from a few feet away.
Watching me.
Nobody else would notice the difference.
I do.