because he’d gotten a text from Audrey that she and Sam were doing their homework and Rhys was napping in his room. His room.
Christ, having Rhys at his house was strange, and yet not. It felt comfortable, but maybe too comfortable. He needed to keep those other feelings separate and concentrate on getting him well. On the one hand, Rhys had always been a fixture in the house, had always been around, but now it was different because Rhys was hurt, and they had kissed right before that, and Emerson wished he knew where they stood. It was harder than he’d ever thought possible to move on and forget any of that ever happened.
Instead of stopping on an errand, he drove straight home, wanting to make sure Rhys was okay but also feeling asinine because of course he was.
This morning he’d essentially left Rhys to his own devices as he drove the kids to school, then came back to check on him during lunch, only to find him sitting up in bed, watching YouTube videos of climbing. Same old Rhys, except there was a softness there Emerson hadn’t seen since his parents’ death, and it was most likely from having to rely on others’ help during his recovery.
When he got home he checked on the kids first, then headed toward Rhys’s room. The light was on, and he was sitting up, reading something on his phone.
“Hey,” Emerson said.
Rhys threw him a tired smile. “Hey yourself.”
“How about we set you up in the living room while I make dinner?”
“Perfect.”
Emerson helped him out of bed, waited outside the door while he took a while washing up in the bathroom—so long, actually, that he would have wondered if Rhys had fallen over if not for the humming of a song Emerson couldn’t quite put his finger on. He looked refreshed when he finally emerged, and as Rhys leaned on him while walking toward the kitchen, Emerson held back a shaky sigh.
Sam and Audrey hung out with Rhys on the couch, watching an old episode of Jimmy Neutron that Rhys told them was his favorite from childhood.
“I haven’t seen this in years,” Rhys proclaimed, and Emerson noted how Sam and Audrey made brief eye contact. They’d had the same conversation a couple of months ago when Rhys had been clicking through the channels for something to watch. In fact, he’d influenced Sam to search for more episodes and have a marathon of his own, especially since the lead was a boy genius. Emerson figured Sam could relate.
Emerson followed the kids’ lead, waiting to see if they mentioned it to him. If they did, would Rhys feel bad? The kids seemed to have the same concern, and let it go.
He rooted around in the cupboard, pulling out fettuccine noodles and a jar of Alfredo. He knew he should’ve defrosted the chicken breasts or stopped at the store for something else to add to the meal, but for now, it would have to do.
And forget about making any kind of sauce from scratch; he was woefully inept and wished he’d paid more attention when his parents were alive, like Rhys obviously did with his mom.
Rhys loved good food and could probably eat whatever the hell he wanted after expending so much energy in the great outdoors. Sometimes Emerson would find him in his kitchen, up to his elbows in dishes, having tried out one recipe or another. He’d make someone very happy someday. That idea did not sit well with him at all, and he tried like hell to push the dark thought aside as something that felt like jealousy settled in his stomach.
He was embarrassed at his bland meal as they all gathered around the table to eat. At least he’d found some garlic bread in the freezer to add to their dinner.
“Sorry if this is pitiful,” he remarked, sprinkling Parmesan onto his noodles.
“Hey, it’s better than Jell-O and broth,” Rhys replied, then tucked a forkful into his mouth. “Next time you can just add some sliced mushrooms or sundried tomatoes to the sauce.”
“Sundried what?” Emerson quipped.
“Ew, mushrooms are gross,” Sam said, pushing up his glasses.
Emerson arched an eyebrow. “See what I’m up against?”
Rhys chuckled. “Definitely.”
“Sam hardly likes anything,” Audrey complained. “But I would try it if you made it. No offense, Emerson.”
“None taken,” Emerson replied. “Maybe when Rhys is back on his feet we can bribe him to be our full-time chef.”
“Deal,” Rhys replied, and then he became pensive. Was he thinking about his