I bit my tongue and watched the screen, but my eyes drooped before the introductory text was finished scrolling across the screen, and I rested my head against his bare chest. “Why did your wife let you go?” I’d closed my eyes, breathing him in as the medicine took effect.
He didn’t answer for a few moments but then said, “Lots of reasons, probably.”
“You got Sudafed and Star Wars for me in Cincinnati,” I murmured, as the heavy drowsiness took hold. “Guys don’t do that.”
He shrugged, the motion rocking my head gently. “I never did anything like this for her.” His voice was quiet and sounded distant as I drifted off.
Why not?
Twenty-seven
When I returned to Chicago Sunday afternoon, I decided to keep my promise to join Felicia for her session with a personal trainer. She’d convinced me it would be good to try something new, and the kickboxing instructor she called Wes the Sexy Trainer agreed to train us together. Ironically, I felt good for the first time all weekend when I boarded the plane home.
Felicia stretched on the grass as we waited for her trainer. “Please tell me you rallied overnight and enjoyed your sexy weekend.”
“I was sick as a dog the entire time. Asleep half the time and drugged up for the rest. I never even left the room.” I reached a hand behind my head and stretched my triceps. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”
“What did he do?” Felicia raised an eyebrow as she straightened and adjusted her ponytail.
“He bought me medicine, warm pajamas, and streamed Star Wars.” My smile widened. “He snuggled with me and watched fucking Star Wars,” I repeated, more to myself than Felicia, shaking my head.
“He took care of you the whole weekend?” Her voice lilted, the disbelief obvious.
A light breeze swirled around us, and I cast a quick glance at a couple jogging by, their strides in sync. “I kept insisting he go or at least get a different room, but he stayed.”
“That’s boyfriend-level shit—you know that, right?”
“We’re not labeling anything.”
“Well, no matter what you call him, it’s about time you were with a good guy. Why don’t you make it official and have that dreaded defining-the-relationship talk?” Felicia stood, brushing dirt and grass from the tight pants that showed off her curvy but toned figure. She had always been beautiful, but I’d never seen her this muscular.
“I see you looking,” she said, smacking one of her butt cheeks. “Take it in, girl. I’ve been telling you Wes is a miracle worker.”
I laughed and swatted at her myself while my mind digested her suggestion on defining things. I remembered curling against him in the warm bed the first night before the medicine kicked in, feeling safer and more content than I could remember ever feeling. His chest and abs had been hard and warm under my hands, and the weight of his touch on my shoulder reassuring. The rest of the weekend had been fine, but we hadn’t shared that level of intimacy, between me being asleep and not wanting to get him sick. I’d awoken that morning, feeling better but next to an empty pillow. He left a simple note on the dresser with a glass of water and two of the gel caps I’d been taking. Hope you feel better—didn’t want to wake you! —J. I didn’t quite know how to interpret that—it wasn’t overly sentimental or romantic. Maybe this was a natural, if unsatisfying, end to a fling.
“I’m not going to make him define anything after he had a front row seat to my one-woman show, Phlegm, Night Sweats, and You.”
“Are you worried he’s going to peace out because of some snot?”
“Maybe,” I mumbled.
“Do you remember throwing up on him the first night you met and him still calling you?”
I cringed at the memory. “Near him.”
She rested a hand on my shoulder for balance, reaching back to stretch her quads. “You’re a badass, hot-as-hell, fucking brilliant doctor, not some insecure high school girl. Man up!”
“Do you know how rife with toxic masculinity the phrase man up is?” I challenged, mirroring her pose. “It implies that to be courageous is to be a man.”
“Do you know how annoying it is when you change the subject?” Her tone was smug.
“I’m just saying, we don’t need to insert men into every aspect of our language.”
“Okay, ovary up. Fallopian forward. Vulva with a vengeance.” She sighed dramatically, moving out of the stretch, and I stifled a laugh as I was reminded why we had been friends for so long. “Nay, you like him. Don’t tell me you don’t, and he sounds amazing—like unbelievable, and I’m kind of worried you’re delusional and making him up. So, woman up. Person up. Have the talk.”