“Did you take your medicine?” Surprisingly, he took the concern option.
“Not yet.”
“Good. I’m going to make you something. You mind if I touch some stuff in your kitchen?”
I reach for a tissue and blow my nose. “Have at it,” I say, vaguely worried about what ‘touch stuff’ could actually entail. I feel gross, and I’m sure I look even grosser. I hear him rummaging around and then I hear the blender going. What the hell is he doing, and why did I agree to this? I have no appetite at all, so whatever he’s concocting in there, I’m sure I’m not going to eat it.
A few minutes later, he’s handing me a glass with what looks like an orange smoothie, like the kind you get at the mall that’s so yummy. “Oh, wow!” I say and take a sip. It’s actually delicious. “This is sooo good.” I take another sip. “What’s in this?”
He’s beaming over the fact I love his fuzzy orange drink. “It’s orange juice, a little bit of milk, and honey.”
“It’s fabulous! Thank you.”
He points to the meds on the coffee table next to me. “Take your meds. You sound worse than yesterday.”
“They make me tired.”
“I don’t care, rest is good for you. Sleep all fucking day if you want.”
I down the pills with a gulp of the orange deliciousness. He’s typing like mad on his phone and looks annoyed at it. He looks up and shoves his phone into his back pocket. “Should I feed the cat? Do you want some breakfast?”
I stare at him like he’s from another planet. Why is he doing this? Why is he even here?
“No, I’m fine. You should really be going.”
I hear his phone beep and he yanks it out, glances at the screen, makes a face, and shoves it back into jeans again.
“And you look sort of busy anyway,” I say, wondering who he’s texting with. Probably his girlfriend wondering where he is. “So you should go and take care of whatever it is famous rock stars do. Like blondes with big boobs.”
He tilts his head at me and makes a face. “Really? You’re gonna go there?” he says. “Don’t say shit like that to me, okay? I just want to be me when I’m with you. This is why I didn’t want you to know what I do. I’m not a rock star. I’m just some asshole who plays the guitar.”
Eek. Touched a nerve it seems. “Storm, you’re not an asshole. Not always, anyway. I just thought you’d have better things to do than hang around a sick person and play nurse.”
“If I did, that’s what I’d be doing.”
I put my hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. Calm down. And put a shirt on, please.”
Instead, he sits on the edge of the couch next to me. He puts one hand on the pillow next to my head so he’s partially leaning over me. He takes my hand in his other hand and presses my palm against his chest, holding my hand against him. I can feel his heart beating while my own heart is pounding in my chest. I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it there against him.