Daydream (Maple Hills, #3)(52)
I haven’t seen Henry sick before, but I’m quickly discovering that it turns him into a massive baby. Looking over to where he’s sprawled across the length of my couch, I see Joy is happily purring on his lap as he scratches behind her ears. The two of them have become the best of friends, and it’s getting increasingly more difficult not to be jealous.
“Do you need anything? I’m helping Gigi with her homework soon.” The last thing I need is for him to walk shirtless behind my laptop.
“Attention. Sympathy. A cure,” he says, his deep voice monotone as he lists his requirements. “A do-over where I didn’t eat a suspicious-smelling hamburger.”
“Feeling real good about the chicken burger you called boring right about now. I can offer you freezer homemade chicken soup and at best a half-sympathetic pat on the back.” He scowls at me. “No, seriously. I’m sorry you don’t feel great. I promise to give you all the attention and sympathy when I’m done.”
“Thanks. I’m good. I had chicken soup already and yours won’t be as good as mine.”
“Where did you get chicken soup?” I ask, powering up my laptop and not even bothering to defend the integrity of my soup. Henry stretches his arms up; the ripped muscles of his stomach flex as he reaches above his head. He twists, fluffing up the cushions before rolling onto his side and repositioning Joy next to his chest on the couch so they’re both looking at me.
“My mom dropped it off on her way to work when I called her looking for attention, sympathy, and a cure.”
“You are so spoiled.” He smiles like he knows it. “What does your mom do? What’s her name? So I don’t confuse your moms.”
“Yasmine. She’s a surgeon at Cedars-Sinai, but she volunteers at a nonprofit in her free time, so she was heading there to do a few hours at the clinic when she dropped off my soup.”
I want to know every little thing about him, and I don’t think he realizes how much. “What does the nonprofit do?”
“Advocate for Black women who need medical support. They’re disproportionately impacted by medical negligence or insufficient care, and are more likely to go undiagnosed because of institutional racism.”
He looks like he’s about to stop explaining, but I imagine it’s the information-hungry look on my face that encourages him to continue.
“She volunteers in the clinic for people who aren’t being listened to by their own doctor or because they don’t have access to a doctor. And sometimes she does talks about racial bias in the medical industry at hospital events. Mama is also a doctor and she used to volunteer at the clinic with her, but not that much now that she’s teaching.”
“She sounds amazing, Henry. They both do. Where does your mama teach? What’s she called?”
He looks at me like I just asked him for the winning lottery numbers. “Maple Hills. She’s called Maria. Do you not already know this?”
“Clearly not,” I say, rolling my eyes playfully. “What made her start teaching?”
He yawns, covering his mouth with the back of his hand, and I swear he’s doing it because he knows how interested I am. “College was rough for her at first because her parents stopped talking to her. She says she had no queer professors that proved to her success was waiting. She wants the people who need that to be able to get it from her. Great career, wife, kid, etcetera.”
“Were you ever tempted to follow in their footsteps and go into medicine, too? Or was it always art for you?”
“Mom went to med school because both of my grandparents were doctors, and it was important to her to carry on their legacy by helping her community. Her parents had her when they were older so she’s an only child, too. Mama went to med school because she wanted a job that paid her enough to never have to ask her homophobic parents for financial support, and she wanted to help people. I never had those kinds of pressures, so I’ve always followed my passions, which are sports and art.”
“I love hearing about your family,” I admit honestly. “I could listen to you talk about yourself all day.”
He smiles but buries his head into Joy to hide it. Lifting his head, he brushes her white hair off the bridge of his nose and leans against his hand. “Did you have to wait until I’m sick before quizzing me on my life?”
“I need you incapacitated so you sit still long enough to quiz you. One last question because Gigi is going to call me any minute. Why art? I know you’re talented, but why not a sports major or something?”
Henry’s quiet while he thinks, and I say a tiny prayer that Gigi doesn’t call before I get my answer. “It’s always been a way to say the things I didn’t know how to. Especially when I was younger and I wasn’t as talkative as I am now. Don’t raise your eyebrow at me; this is my version of talkative. Art tells a story; it can change people’s minds or reaffirm their beliefs. I’ve spent my life worrying about saying the wrong thing. I can’t get art wrong.”
The video call ringtone starts to sound out of my laptop and I’ve never had the urge to throw it at a wall quite like I do now. “I lied! I have so many questions,” I say, how frantic I suddenly feel clear in my tone.
“You ran out of time, Cap,” he says, lying back on the cushions. “And I’m very sick, so I’m going to take a nap until you’re done.”