17. Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Finnley
When I open my eyes, it’s quiet. I’m on the couch, covered in my fuzzy purple blanket, and I feel better. A lot better. My limbs still feel slightly weak when I push myself up to sit, but the dizziness and lightheadedness is gone, and I’m not cold anymore. All good signs. My head feels a lot clearer now that the insulin has had time to do its job, and despite the soup Hudson made me, my stomach growls.
I’d never admit it out loud, but that was scary as fuck. I wish I could remember what happened in the garden, but I can’t. I had to have passed out because, one minute, I was pulling weeds, and the next, Shelly—one of the guests at the B it’s not. It’s more .” He drops his eyes and dips the knife into the mayo jar.
“But it isn’t,” I insist. “It’s not money, it’s just time.”
Irritation creases his features, and he nearly rips the bread in two the way he’s haphazardly running the mayo across it. “Money doesn’t mean shit.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, banding my arms across my chest. “That’s because you’ve always had it.”
I know he’s not trying to be arrogant; he’s just being Hudson. Money has never mattered to him like it does me because he’s always had it. Even at a young age, his parents never struggled. Not like my mama and me.
He lets out a sigh and the butter knife he’s holding clangs to the counter. Bracing his hands on either side of the food, he shakes his head, then lifts his gaze to mine.
“Listen, I apologize for going behind your back to Erin, ok? I should have asked you first. But you and I both know you would have told me no. And we’d be right back here in a week or a month, when something like this happens again and you can’t get your meds. ”
I drop his gaze and stare at the counter. I hate that he’s right. I hate that he did this out of the kindness of his heart and I’m throwing it back in his face. I know he means well, I do. But I hate that he’s always bailing me out.
I can’t even remember all the things he’s paid for over the years. Not so much when I was married, but just last winter, he gave me money for new tires because he didn’t like the idea of my driving on the half bald ones during the winter. He always buys the food when we order out, and he never fails to rent the movies we can’t stream for free. Three days ago, he paid the electricity bill I had hanging on the fridge. I was planning on paying it this weekend, but the generous jerk beat me to it. Yes, he’s living here for free, but still. It makes me feel so goddamn small and needy. Something I never want to be.
My mama taught me to take care of myself. I hate feeling like I can’t do it alone. But mostly, I hate it because it feels really fucking good to be taken care of by him. It scares the shit out of me how much I like it. It makes me want more with him. It makes me want him, and that can’t happen. I can’t risk what my life would look like if I lost him.
He sighs and his voice turns soft, taking on the same tender tone that he used when he helped me undress earlier. “I’ll look at the finances for the B you’re not my husband.”
Silence envelopes the kitchen as he watches me, that muscle ticking in his jaw again. Something wars on his face, and then melts away to determination. Then, he says something so crazy, so ridiculous, that I’m positive there is no way I heard him right.
“What if I were?”
I stare at him, the silence stretching into what feels like minutes. “What if you were, what?” I finally stutter out.
“Your husband.”
My mind spins in surprise and butterflies erupt in my stomach. As the seconds tick by, something that feels like relief mixed with hope blossoms in my chest, threatening to drown out the pain I feel at him for going behind my back. The thought of not having to worry about insulin anymore is like a physical uncoiling of relief in my belly. It’s a wash of warmth over my overstimulated, tired brain. It’s like something has clicked into place, and I have to admit I don’t hate the idea like I probably should, if for no other reason than not having to worry about my health.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve never not worried about my health. It’s been a juggling act of highs and lows for nearly thirty years. The reprieve a marriage to Hudson would bring would be life-changing. Looking at him now, he’s so familiar, so safe. But why would he do this for me? Because we’re best friends? But what’s in it for him?
I also can’t deny how my feelings for him have changed, and how I’ve found myself thinking about him as more than a best friend. Can I marry my best friend and keep these new feelings for him a secret? And what’s more, if I can never truly have Hudson in the way that I want, wouldn’t it be ok to pretend that I could? Even for just a little while?
But I don’t say any of those things. Even though it sounds good on paper, it’s still crazy . “You can’t be serious.”
“Why?” He crosses his arms over his chest, his voice purposeful. “You need insurance. I have it.”
“No. It’s insane, we can’t—” I fling a hand out, trying to sort through the warring emotions in my heart and my head. “You can’t just… No. That’s insane .” I repeat and I realize I sound like a broken record. “Besides, isn’t that insurance fraud or something?”
Even as I deny it—fight against the thought—I feel my chest flushing with warmth, the kind that comes every time he touches me lately. It’s freaking delusional. I’m delusional. Here he is, offering to help with my insulin, and I’m daydreaming about pretending to be his wife.
“You have a better idea?” he counters, resting his palms on the counter. Sandwiches forgotten, he pins me with his steady gaze, eyebrows slightly lifted.
My laugh is absolutely hysterical, mostly because the more I sit with it, the more I want it. But no. We can’t. Can we? My best friend has officially lost it. “We’re not a couple. We’re not together.”
“Yeah, so?” He shrugs. “We live together. We’ve been friends for damn-near twenty years. We might not be together–together, but we love each other; we say it all the time. Drunk people get married in Vegas in front of fat Elvis every day with less.”
I force out an incredulous sound that is more a screech than an actual laugh. “We’re not drunk! Although, I’m starting to wonder if you are. Either that, or I’m hallucinating because this is fucking crazy.”
He lets out a long sigh through his nose, then says, “You couldn’t even stand, babe. Your numbers were high as fuck, and who knows for how long. Do you even know the kind of damage you could be doing to your body?”
“Of course, I do,” I snap. I know all too well. I hate that he’s right. And I want to melt right off the chair into a puddle on the floor because the way he says ‘babe’ so full of concern and heat feels different this time—like how he would say to his girlfriend. Or his... wife . God, I love the sound of that. The stool I just vacated scrapes along the floor as my stomach bottoms out.
He sighs, his tone and body language like someone dealing with a spooked, caged animal. “Fuck. I’m sorry, ok? Just sit back down and have something to eat. We’ll figure something out.”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I snap and round the island.
He turns, so the island is at his back. “Where are you going?” he asks.
The way he’s watching me, leaned back against the island, arms across his chest, he probably thinks I’m losing it. Which, I absolutely am.
Swiping up my keys, I’m halfway to the door leading to the garage when I grumble out, “To find me a sugar daddy so you’ll stop paying for shit.”
It’s cruel, and I don’t mean it. I feel the immediate burn of tears prick my eyes and a lump of regret forms in my throat. I want to turn into him, not run away. I want to bury my face in his chest and feel his arms around me. I want to accept his offer to marry him. I want to let him take care of me so that I can stop worrying for even half a second. I want to punch him in the junk and kiss the shit out of him. I’m confused and overwhelmed at his generosity, and I’m still so pissed at him, but I’m even more sick of being a burden. His proposal—no, his proposition —has my insides in knots.
“You’re in your pajamas and you’re not wearing any shoes.”
The door closes on his words, and I fight back tears all the way to the car. Once I’m inside and safely driving somewhere— anywhere but here—I’ll let them fall.