I offer him a weak smile, a slight upturn of my lips.
“There’s that beautiful smile,” he says, reaching up to graze his thumb over the corner of my lips.
“Please. I am anything but beautiful right now.”
He pauses, his eyes scanning my face. He drags the back of his hand over my cheek, a tender, light touch. The silence he lets stretch between us shifts the energy.
“You are always beautiful, Abby.”
If he keeps looking at me like that, I am going to kiss him.
“I need my meds,” I say, trying to clear the air of the encroaching intimacy.
“Okay, let’s get them. Do you want to get up?”
I attempt a nod, but all I can manage is a slight up and down movement of my head. Miles gets it, though, and stands, hooking his hands under my armpits and lifting me to my feet as if I weigh nothing.
“Would it hurt you if I picked you up? To carry you to your bed?”
“Just be gentle. Don’t jostle me.”
In any other circumstance, I would fight him on carrying me, but not having to walk sounds nice. And I just don’t have the energy to fight Miles. Which is probably the way he likes it.
He guides my arms around his neck, and I interlace my fingers. Faint traces of his cologne tickle my nose, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it was. Mostly he just smells like…him, like sweat and laundry detergent. His white T-shirt is soft under my arms, and I barely notice when he hooks his arm under my legs and sweeps me up against his chest. I rest my head on my own arm as he carries me to bed.
“I don’t want to lie down,” I say. “Just sit me on the edge.”
He does as I ask, setting me on the bed as if I were made of glass. He kneels in front of me, an arm on either side of my hips. “Tell me where your meds are.”
His voice is firm, but gentle. Tears prick against the backs of my eyes and overwhelming gratitude clogs my throat.
“Suitcase,” I croak. “It’s a black…thing.”
He wastes no time finding my small black zipper pouch with my meds. He kneels in front of me again, opening it on my lap so I can pick what I need. Anti-nausea and a cocktail of pain meds.
He’s got a water bottle ready for me and watches me like a hawk as I take all the pills, setting my water bottle on mynightstand when I’m done. He swipes his thumb across my bottom lip to get rid of a droplet of water.
“You used to like ice when you had a migraine in college, right? For your head?”
I tip my head down once, half a nod in confirmation. He wastes no time calling room service from the phone on my nightstand and ordering a bag of ice and a few Gatorades. When he’s done, he climbs onto the bed, resting his back against the headboard and patting the space in front of him.
“Come here.”
“I can’t lay down,” I say.
“I want you to rest. Can you lean against me?”
My chin wobbles, the tears I held back earlier springing to my eyes, dropping before I have the chance to stop them. It takes energy to stop myself from crying, and I don’t have it right now, so I let the tears come. I’m so overwhelmed by his care, by his attentiveness. It reminds me of being a child, before I knew I was making my parents so tired. They way they would sit with me until I fell asleep. When I woke up, they would still be there, sometimes awake, sometimes asleep on the floor, an arm outstretched toward mine where they fell asleep and let go of my hand. Whatever I needed, they would have it ready for me or get it for me.
Hazel did the same through college and after, sitting with me if I wanted the company, though I rarely admitted that I did. She would go get me McDonald’s if I could stomach it, knowing that a Coke and fries sometimes made me feel better.
Todd needed to be asked. He would do things if he was available, and only if I asked. And I hated asking. I only ever did it if I was in really bad shape.
But I asked Miles to leave. I told him to go, and yet here he is, offering to hold me so I can rest. It’s the kind of care I have longed for for years.
“Abby, oh my god, are you okay?”
Miles scoots toward me as I hide my face in my hands. He sits behind me, a leg on either side of my body, and wraps his arms around me. He tucks his face in my neck.
