“I might fall asleep like this.” I sniffle, sinking into the crook of his arm and resting my head on his chest.
“I hope you do.” His finger delicately trails my back.
“But you have work to do. I’m getting in the way.”
“Don’t worry about me, Peaches.” He lays a kiss on my forehead. “I just want you to get some relief, and if that’s sleeping like this—trust me, I’ll be okay.”
My eyelids fall heavy as my tightened muscles release a fraction. The Vicodin finally kicks in. I direct my thoughts to dreamland and find the all-too-common thought I’ve had lately. Not some fantastical Hollywood starlet notion or Chris Evans entering my baking shop. But a simple, just-as-outlandish thought these days.
I wake up, and I’m not in pain.
How visionary.
“Hey, Liam?”
“Mmm?” he hums, still drawing lazy circles on my back.
“You know when you’re trying to fall asleep. Do you ever try to control your dreams?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“It’s nothing. I’ve just been thinking about that lately. When I was younger, I used to fall asleep with dreams of being a pop star or a famous athlete.”
He snorts. “You can’t walk without causing physical harm to yourself.”
“Dreams don’t have to be realistic.” I laugh. “That’s precisely why they’re dreams. But as I got older, they shifted. At night, I’d wrap myself in a reverie about walking down the Champs-Élysées in a Givenchy dress, living my best Audrey Hepburn life. Or I’d dance with a Gene Kelly doppelgänger, twirling in the moonlight along the Seine. But lately, when I’m falling asleep, the extraordinary fantasy that finds me is that I’ll wake up and I won’t be in pain.”
His hand stills its circles on my arm. I don’t know why I’m opening up this much. It’s probably a side effect of the pain meds or my hormones (let’s be honest, it’s always the hormones). Or maybe it’s because we’ve taken giant steps over a relationship line the past few days. Whatever the reason, I trust him with everything.
“Because the truth is, my body can’t go on vacation from my disease. There’s no pretending it doesn’t exist, and feeling like a healthy twenty-something, even for a day, is as bizarre to me now as finding my own Gene Kelly. But that’s such bullshit, because when I spiral like this, I have to admit that I’ve even let it take my daydreams, you know?”
“I don’t,” he whispers and clears his throat. “I can’t pretend to know what you’re going through or what living like this every day must feel like. But I know you deserve your daydreams. You deserve to find your Gene Kelly, Peaches. Please don’t let it take that. Your ability to dream big and believe in the unbelievable were such big parts of who you were.”
The hollow cavity in my chest cracks open with his words, filling endlessly with all things old Hollywood glitz and glamor, warm nights and fireflies, and picnics with peaches, because that’s what Liam is to me when the shield is down. Maybe he is magical after all.
“That was a very lovely thing to say. Thank you for not being a fixer.”
“I’m not quite sure what that means, but no problem, Peaches.” He kisses the top of my head, and the warm fuzzies intensify.
“Most people try to fix the mess, but you don’t.”
“That’s because there isn’t a mess to fix. This is your life.”
“That’s also very true.” Another yawn passes through, and I burrow deeper into Liam. “I’m stealing more of your heat.”
“Steal away,” he whispers into my hair.
The blanket drops from my shoulder, and Liam gently pulls it back up, letting his fingers rest there.
My eyelids grow heavy. I drift in and out of consciousness, drawing closer into Liam but a nagging thought tugs on my conscience and keeps me from dreamland. “Liam? I didn’t mean what I said that day I called Eli. There are a lot of things I can think of that are worse than dealing with you.”
“Don’t worry about that right now, Peaches.” His fingers brush a strand of hair off my face, and warmth spirals through right on schedule. “Just get to sleep, okay?”
“Okay, sunshine.”
I fall asleep to the rhythm of his chest matching mine. Images of today flicker through, the desperation in his voice while we were kissing, him on his knees in the bathroom, the postcards, the gentle kiss on the top of my head just now. Maybe it’s time to finally trust him with the whole truth. The truth I’m finally ready to admit to myself:
That more than any dream about Gene Kelly, my biggest dream has always been him.
