“I’m fine,” I mumble, the words muffled by the pillow. “Just a headache.”
Another moment of silence before the couch dips near my feet. I hear the sound of sneakers being kicked off, thumping softly against the wooden floors.
“Do you need anything?”
I expected a lecture from Dr. Jack about how I must have been working too hard to have my headache return six days after the injury, and I’m pleasantly surprised by the absence of it.
“Just an anvil.”
“How about dinner?”
I tug the pillow down from my face, turning to face him, squinting as the bright colors of sunset pierce my eyes. “Are you making it?”
A soft laugh rockets out of him. He’s wearing blue scrubs like he was the night I met him at the hospital, although these are a dark navy. It makes the color of his eyes even more intense. Hishair is a mess, like he ran his hands through it over and over again. Behind him, the setting sun forms a golden halo around him, making him glow in shades of red and orange.
“I was planning to order something for myself. You want me to order you something too?”
I nod, relieved that I don’t have to cook or order for myself for once. Even the simple task of scrolling through the options and placing the order feels like too much tonight.
“How does pizza sound?”
“Pizza’s good.”
“What do you like?” he asks, and kicks his socked feet up on the coffee table.
I shrug. “Anything. But order from Romano’s Kitchen. It’s the only good pizza in town.”
“Romano’s Kitchen it is.” He stands from the couch, and I watch as he walks in tiny circles around the living room as the dial tone rings, faint but loud enough to hear where he’s pressed the phone to his ear.
He places an order for delivery, a large supreme pizza, an order of garlic knots with extra marinara sauce, and two Diet Cokes. When he sits back down, he glances in my direction and finds me staring. “What?”
“That’s my exact order.”
A grin kicks up one side of his mouth. “Really?”
“Well, smaller proportions. But, yes.” I motion toward the path he made. “Do you always pace making phone calls?”
His eyes flick up to where he was just walking, and one shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Mmm, I don’t know. Maybe? I hadn’t noticed.” He glances back at me. “Why?”
I shake my head, unsure how to answer. I haven’t lived with someone since I moved out of my parents’ house. All these little things—the way he was always washes and dries his moka pot as soon as he’s finished making his coffee, how he dumpshis laundry out to fold as soon as the dryer is done instead of throwing it in a hamper and digging out of it until it’s time for another load like I do, how I’m pretty sure he brushes his teeth in the shower because that’s where his toothbrush and toothpaste are—tell me more about him than any conversation would. It’s weird, feeling like I’m getting to know someone I’ve barely spoken to.
I’m not sure what to make of it.
“I’m going to shower,” he says, pushing up from the couch once more, pausing to grab his shoes from under the coffee table. “Pizza will be here in twenty.”
He comes back out right as a knock sounds on the door, dressed in dark sweats, the hood pulled up over his damp hair and feet bare. The Tylenol has finally started to kick in so I’m sitting up, reading the paperback I had discarded on the coffee table earlier, my feet tucked beneath the couch cushions and the blanket strewn over my lap.
Jack takes the pizza from a teenager with a mullet and braces and pays him from the wallet he leaves on the table by the door—the only personal item, along with his shoes, in the general living area that indicate he lives here—and brings the boxes, paper plates, napkins, and Cokes to the living room.
“Want to eat here?”
“Works for me.” I don’t tell him that despite being able to sit up, I think standing and walking to the table would feel like someone is hammering a screwdriver into my head.
He passes me a paper plate and opens the pizza box, the room immediately filling with the aroma of garlic and melted cheese. I lift a slice onto my plate, cheese stringing from the box to my plate. Beside me, Jack watches as I pluck the olives off the pizza and discard them in a heap on my plate.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I glance up, flicking an olive off my fingernail. “Picking off the olives.”
