A Kaleidoscope of Butterflies - Christina Lee Page 0,33
excused?” Sam begged after finishing his last bite of bread, and when Emerson relented, they both rose to rinse their plates and place them haphazardly in the dishwasher. Emerson looked away, knowing he’d rearrange them later, simply thankful they’d even remembered.
Rhys still hadn’t made a dent in his plate of pasta, and Emerson didn’t think it was because he wasn’t hungry. It could’ve been his cooking, but more than that, he noticed how Rhys struggled with the repeated motion of lifting his fork to his mouth. He wondered if he’d missed a dose of his pain meds. He was convinced he had when Rhys dropped the utensil, which clattered to the floor.
“Damn it,” Rhys said, gritting his teeth.
“Here…let me.”
Emerson reached for a forkful of pasta from Rhys’s plate and lifted it to his mouth.
Rhys’s eyes went wide as he stared at Emerson. “You don’t have to feed me,” he said thickly.
“You’re obviously in pain,” he muttered, quietly enough that the kids wouldn’t hear him in the next room. “That’s what I’m here for.”
“Okay, Nurse Rose.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Emerson supposed it was fitting. And maybe someday it would come to fruition. “I guess that’s what friends do, right?”
“It’s absolutely what friends do,” Emerson replied, his cheeks burning.
Then Emerson fed Rhys bite after bite of the creamy pasta, slowly and deliberately, and as he did so, he could feel Rhys looking at him—really looking at him. Like he was studying him, trying to figure him out, and Emerson didn’t think Rhys was even aware of his scrutiny until Emerson looked backed at him and stared into his eyes.
There was a drawn-out moment as a certain gravity hung in the air between them. For Emerson, the gravity was markedly different than it was for Rhys. Rhys most likely felt a bit helpless, and his pride was threatening to rear its ugly head. Or hopefully just grateful that Emerson wasn’t making a big deal of it…even though it felt like a big deal to Emerson for wholly different reasons. Christ.
Emerson wanted to lean in and take his mouth, taste the essence of him. It was excruciating not having the opportunity to explore whatever they had been about to before the accident. It certainly could’ve crashed and burned or not gone anywhere after that. They absolutely were about to put their friendship on the line, so maybe it was all for the best. Not that his misfortune was a good thing.
But Emerson could not soothe the profound ache in his chest when he looked at his battered and bruised—and beautiful—friend, nor the ache to touch Rhys in a meaningful way. Instead, he’d feed him and care for him and let him know he wasn’t alone.
It was the best he could do in a terrible situation.
11
Rhys
Emerson still seemed tense and flustered around him, but when he’d fed Rhys his dinner? Jesus. He didn’t even know how to feel about that. Rhys had been mortified, but he’d also desperately welcomed the intimacy of the act because he was feeling unsettled and Emerson was like an anchor to a drifting ship. In many ways it was like they were starting over again, as though their friendship was hanging in the balance, which didn’t make a lick of sense. Had something happened between them before the accident? Had they begun growing apart?
Regardless, it was comforting having Emerson there, along with Sam and Audrey. They were good for comic relief as well as needed distraction.
After dinner, they all settled on the couch, Emerson absently flicking around the television channels.
“Have we started any new series together?” Rhys asked. It was the one thing he remembered them doing, binging cool shows together, mostly at Emerson’s house. That brought him a certain comfort, the idea of some things remaining the same when everything else felt so unnerving.
When Emerson didn’t reply right away, he noticed him looking to Sam and Audrey for a response.
“We were in the middle of the third season of Stranger Things.” Audrey nodded toward the screen, and Emerson brought up the program on Netflix.
Relief flooded him. He was pretty certain he remembered this show.
“Is there a character named Eleven?”
“Yes!” Sam fist-bumped the air. “You’ve watched every season with us.”
“Why don’t we start from the beginning so Rhys gets a refresher?”
“No, you don’t have to—” Rhys started in a frustrated tone. How many things would be this way? How many little things would he come upon that he couldn’t remember or had to be reminded about?