“I’ve always called my bossessir,” she said, speaking against the shut door. “And I don’t mind helping with the dishes. I do them all the time at home.”
“Well, you won’t do either here,” he declared.
Silence.
“Sir — Gray… may I come in?”
“God, no,” he said before he could stop himself. “I mean… I’m not decent… I took a shower before you came… to try to soothe my head… and I went straight to bed after.”
The lie tasted putrid in his mouth, but there was no way he could face her.
“Oh, I-I’m sorry. I don’t mean to disturb you.”
She sounded miserable. He couldn’t let her feel miserable.
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Meredith. Thank you for coming by today. I don’t need anything else tonight.”
Again, silence.
“What are you going to do for dinner?”
What the hell?Was she FaceTiming his mother?
“I-I don’t know.” The statement came out in a laugh. He had no idea what he’d have for dinner — if he had dinner. He’d write until he couldn’t write any more, and if he felt like eating, he’d leave to get—
Dammit.
He was a prisoner in his own home, and she knew it.
“Hang on,” she said, and he heard her walk away.
He listened. He could hear her opening and closing cabinets, pulling open the freezer and then the fridge. Then she walked back to the door.
“How about mac and cheese?”
Gray blinked. “Yeah, I can make mac and cheese.”
She made a noise, like a smack with her mouth. “Not you, silly.”
Again, her footsteps faded out, and he heard her opening cabinets again. Clattering told him she was pulling pots out of the cabinet under his stove.
“What are you doing?” he called, even though he already knew.
“I’m making mac and cheese,” she called back. The closed door muffled her voice, but he could still make out her words. “Do you have any PAM? Oh, here it is.”
Spraying ensued.
“I don’t want you to cook for me.”
Meredith turned on the faucet but talked over it. “Well, your brother asked me to take care of you. You’re not feeling well right now; it’s almost dinner time, and you don’t have any food on hand,” she argued — competently, he noted. “If you don’t feel well enough to get dressed, I’m guessing ordering a pizza is not an option, so this is the best I can do under the circumstances.”
She had him there. Only, ordering a pizza would have worked fine if he hadn’t told her he wasn’t dressed. A sinking feeling — one that started between his eyes, pushed down against his shoulders, and landed squarely in his gut — made Gray flop back on his bed and stare at the ceiling.
Hiding in his bedroom hadn’t spared him any humiliation. It had only compounded it. Now she thought he couldn’t feed or dress himself, and that was no one’s fault but his own.
“My head will feel better in a little while,” he groaned. This was another lie because now it really was beginning to hurt again. “I can make my own dinner.”
“Gray, it’s just mac and cheese,” she said softly. “Besides, the pasta’s already on the stove.”
