There’s a couple at the end of the hall, staring at a painting. The painting is generic and pedantic. A tree on the cusp of autumn. The most notable thing about it is the couple admiring it.
He’s bone-thin, wearing a hospital gown, and holding an IV pole. She’s curvy, rosy-cheeked, and holding on to him like she thinks he might float away. Maybe he will. He looks as fragile as the fluttering leaf in the painting.
They both have grey hair and wrinkles around their mouths and eyes. They’re probably in their seventies, and yet, as I walk past, the man’s hand slips down to the woman’s rounded bottom and gives it a squeeze. She grins mischievously and plants a quick kiss on his lips. I wonder how long they’ve been together. I wonder if I’ll ever find anyone who will put up with me long enough for my hair to turn grey and my boobs to sag.
“It’s just like our tree,” the man whispers as I walk past.
The woman tilts her head and rests it against hisshoulder. “All it’s missing is that ratty old picnic blanket and you on your knees begging.” There’s a teasing twinkle in her eyes as she looks up at him.
He laughs and kisses her hair. As I round the corner away from them, I hear him ask soberly, “Did you ever regret saying yes?”
I don’t want to eavesdrop on their private moment, so I keep walking, wondering what she answered. Marriage isn’t something I put a lot of faith in. I haven’t had great examples. But I like the thought of loving someone for that long. Knowing someone that well and having them know you. Being completely seen by someone for years upon years and still choosing and being chosen. It feels like too much to ask. Too much to hope for. A rarity only a few people find.
Thankfully, there’s an elevator around the corner, and I finally make my way back to Mom’s room. I’m surprised to find Cosmos there. He’s sitting in a chair beside Mom’s bed with his back to the door, so he doesn’t notice when I walk in, giving me a moment to observe him. The muscles in his back stretch his lab coat as he leans forward, and I let myself wonder what his shoulder blades look like under all that fabric. There’s something so very masculine about a man’s back and shoulders, so very different from a woman’s.
As usual, Mom’s sound asleep. When the door closes, Cosmos looks behind him, his eyes meeting mine. “I brought your book back. Or at least, I thinkit’s yours.” He holds a paperback romance novel out for me. Are his ears slightly pink?
I take the book, but he doesn’t let go right away. A slow smile spreads across his cheeks and warms my insides. “I found something else, too.”
I look down at the book and know immediately what he found. “No.”
“Oh, yes.” His smile is so big his dimples are like kissable craters. He pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and reads. “The doctor had traveled miles to get to their small town, and she was grateful. There was no one else who could help. She didn’t have the training or strength to care for the illness sweeping through their community. She needed him, no matter how much she hated to admit it.”
I try to snatch the paper away, but he twists and blocks my attempts with his broad shoulders. “There was nothing left to do but offer him a place to stay, and there was only one place available. Her own home. Every other family had someone ill, and she couldn’t risk the doctor getting sick.” Cosmos looks over his shoulder at me with a smirk. “I love the only one room trope. Please tell me there’s also only one bed.”
I duck under his arm, coming up in front of him and grabbing for the paper. He holds it out of reach, straining his neck to continue reading. “She didn’t want him to stay with her. Even the few brief hours they’d spent together left her feeling disoriented and too giddy to be healthy. He made her feel things she’d never felt before.” He holds the paper in both hands high over my head. I jump for it,and grab his wrist, but he switches to holding the paper in the other hand.
He continues from memory, looking at me rather than the page. The room stills around us. “She was like a mountain spring, bubbling over its edges, spilling forth thoughts that made her body sing like a babbling brook. Even worse, he seemed completely uninterested, oblivious to the effect he had on her.”
I break eye contact and reach for the paper again. This time I jump high enough to grab it, and he lets go. I stumble as I land on my feet, hitting the firm wall of his chest. He catches me against himself, not moving away, but also not touching me, apart from where his chest supports my back.
He brushes my hair off my shoulder, breath hot on my neck. “He’s not oblivious,” he whispers, low and soft, right into my ear. “Not at all.”
My heart stutters, and my chest swells. Warmth engulfs every part of me, the heat of his body close to mine. I want to take his arms and wrap them around me. Instead, I fiddle with the single sheet of paper in my hand. I can’t believe he read my roughest, scratched-out scene. Even worse, he read it enough times to memorize that small bit of it.
I step away from him and sit in the chair he vacated, covering my face with my hands. Hearing the scribbled words of my romance novel read aloud makes me question why I’m writing all over again.
“So, is this what you’re writing for your MFA?” he asks, tone changing from the sexy purr he was using a minute ago to his normal timbre.
“No. Of course not. I write real books. That’s just…” I speak the words to the floor. “It’s just fun.”
Cosmos pulls at my wrists, uncovering my face. His hands are as soft as silk—no calluses, no dry patches. He’s kneeling next to the chair and looking at me with those dark, intense eyes. Time stops.
“You have nothing to be embarrassed about, and you should absolutely keep writing this. I want to know how it ends.” His thumb traces little circles along the inside of my forearm. The soft touch produces an avalanche of feeling, cascading up my arm and down to just below my belly button.
He breaks contact and points to the list of random endearments I jotted down in the margin. “I also want to know which of these you end up choosing.”
“None of them are right for these characters,” I say, my frustration bubbling up.
“I’m a little partial to darling, myself.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s so formal and old-fashioned.”
“Isn’t this a historical romance?”
“Yeah, but…” I shrug. “It just sounds weird. Stiff, maybe.”
“Not if the right person says it, darling.” He slowly brushes a piece of hair out of my face, fingers feather-light against my cheek.
