My little clean freak.
He pulls the comforter up to my chin. “Try to get some sleep. I’m going to make you something to eat.” Brushing my hair away from my face, he places a soft kiss on my damp forehead.
“Ryan,” I call out, stopping him in the doorway. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I like taking care of people. You, especially.” He closes the door behind him.
Alone in his room for the first time ever, I allow my eyes to wander, taking in my surroundings. There are no photos in here, no color. Only the large window showing off downtown Chicago. His room is minimal, just as the rest of his apartment was until I moved in. It’s as if he’s passing through, though he’s lived here for four-plus years already.
It’s sad when you consider it. You’d think he’d want to set down some roots. To come home and have it feel like home.
My fever must be causing hallucinations because I could swear there’s a pop of green on his dresser. I recognize it from the terracotta pot I replanted it in. A succulent plant sits in plain view, and I can’t help but smile from the small sign of life in his otherwise lonely room.
With a grin on my lips, a fever running through my veins, and his clothes on my body, I fall asleep looking at the tiny pop of color he stole from our living room.
Sometime later, after I’ve eaten some of Ryan’s homemade vegetable soup, with a sweat lingering on my forehead and chills running rampant over my skin, I find the strength for a shower.
Ryan sets me up in his bathroom, grabbing my shampoo and conditioner from my own before checking the temperature of the water and leaving me. I take my time, anchoring my palms on the cool shower tile and allowing the warm water to fall over my back. It takes me far longer than normal to wash my body and hair, but I soak in every second, letting the heat of the shower seep into my bones and by the end of it, I feel a tad more like myself.
Finally, once I redress, I open the bathroom door to find him sitting on the floor, his head leaning back on the wall right next to the doorway as if listening to hear if I might need him.
He looks up at me. “Are you okay?”
I nod and he stands, handing me my hairbrush he was holding on to while camping outside of the bathroom.
With shaky hands, I run it through my strands, but I’m tired and weak, and I honestly don’t care that my hair will be a matted mess if I don’t brush it.
Ryan’s brows are creased with concern as he watches me struggle. “Let me do that, Blue.”
I give in without a fight. Ryan ushers me to sit on the ground in front of the chair he has in the corner of his room. He takes a seat behind me, legs spread on either side of my body.
Gently, he begins to brush my hair.
The slight tension pulling at my scalp feels far too heavenly that I can’t help from falling into his leg, resting my head against his knee.
“Why’d you go today?” he softly asks.
“I had to.”
“Why’d you go today, Ind? The real reason.”
“Because.” I close my eyes, leaning into him. “They’re my friends. They were my friends. I don’t know anymore.”
He pauses his movements and I refuse to turn around and see the disappointment on Ryan’s handsome face. He knows, the same way I know that I’m holding on to those friendships as if I’m holding on to the life I had with Alex.
As I replay Maggie’s words of how Alex regrets the way things have played out, an unexpected peace washes over me.
Because I don’t regret it at all.
If Alex hadn't done what he did, I never would’ve had the opportunity to know Ryan the way I do. I never would’ve had the chance to be immersed in this man’s world and realize how right it feels. How at home I feel.
It’s an overwhelming realization to have, that I truly want no part of the life I once wanted.
Softly, Ryan uses the pads of his fingertips to guide my head to lean against his opposite knee so he can brush the other side of my hair.
Ryan doesn’t make me feel like a burden. He doesn’t make me feel like I’m too much.
I’ve offered him absolutely nothing other than exactly who I am, and he’s embraced every part of me, good and bad.
I don’t think I fully understood that until today.
“Indy,” he whispers from behind me. “What you offer in a relationship, as a friend, a woman, a partner, by simply being who you are is more than enough. And if someone can’t see that you’re everything, then it’s them who's missing out. I know you’re faithful. It’s one of my favorite things about you, but there has to be a limit. Some people don’t deserve your unwavering loyalty.”
Tears leak from my closed eyes, partly because I’m sick and partly because I’ve never had someone take care of me like this, body and soul. Today’s realizations are overwhelming me, and in true Indy fashion, crying is my favorite outlet.
“No one has ever taken care of me,” I squeak past the lump in my throat. “Thank you, Ryan.”
He halts once again, so finally, I look over my shoulder at him. “What?”
He shakes his head, resuming his task of untangling my hair.
Ryan doesn’t like faking intimacy, but this, him brushing my hair and taking care of me while sick seems far more intimate than anything we’ve ever done.
I’m certain the fever must have stolen my filter when I ask, “Are you faking it?”
“No, Blue. I’m not faking anything.”
Then I feel his fingers slip into my wet hair, separating the strands into three equal parts.
“Are you braiding my hair?”
“Yes.”
Jesus. This man. “Where did you learn to do that?”
He chuckles quietly. “My twin sister has a head full of natural curls and you’re asking where I learned how to braid?”
And now I’m picturing a little Ryan helping a little Stevie with her hair and I’m sick and swooning and I want to cry all over again.
I lean into the moment of vulnerability. “Did I do something wrong last night?”
“No. God no. You were perfect.”
“Then why’d you leave me?”
He exhales a long sigh. “Because I’m fucked up, Blue.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am,” he bursts. “I had…” He pauses, his long fingers holding onto my partially braided hair. “You’re a fucking gift, Ind, and I cannot believe I made you feel anything less than that. I’m so sorry. I truly am.”
Turning back, I look at him. There’s a world of apology in those blue-greens and I’ve come to learn though Ryan is sometimes sparse with his words, the ones he does say are intentional.
“I don’t know how to be casual with you, and that scares the shit out of me. I’m trying to. You’ve made it clear you don’t have anything left to give, and at the same time, I’m still so fucked up from things that you don’t even know about.” His face screws up in pain, quickly reminding me that I’ve barely scratched the surface of Ryan’s past. “It all hit me like a freight train last night.”
It’s evident this is weighing on his shoulders, maybe more than it’s affected me since last night. This conversation is important, and as much as I want answers, I know I don’t have the mental strength to give it the attention it deserves. The attention he deserves.