The irony wasn’t lost on him. And touching her — simply touching her — was like finding an iceberg in Hell’s lake. In the slow, barely-there caress of her arm, he could steal his focus away from the vice around his skull.
He wasn’t so wrapped up in this discovery that he didn’t notice, too, how unafraid she was. While others — including himself — might have pulled away or stood back from a person cringing in pain, Meredith had stepped right in.
Compassion and courage. It was a disarming combination.
He still didn’t want someone looking after him — even if he needed help now and then — but he wasn’t about to send her away.
She’d been to the house every day since Bax hired her, and Gray had begun to anticipate each visit, learning to watch the clock as the morning dissolved into afternoon. He loved the sounds that carried through the house when she arrived. Gray had lived alone for so long that hearing her come in was like learning a new piece of music.
The dogs would give him the first clue. They’d rise at his feet and scratch and scurry their way to the front door. A moment later, he’d hear the jingle of keys and the bolt knocking back. The door would open, and she’d enter, cooing and greeting them with affection and laughter.
He’d hold himself still for a few minutes before going down to greet her because the exchange would only last a moment or two, and then it would be over. He was supposed to be working, so it wouldn’t be right to stand in the kitchen and watch her do all the things she insisted on doing. When she wasn’t cooking, she’d bring in his mail, groom the dogs, take them for walks, and complete pretty much any task she saw undone. He’d learned not to leave dishes in the sink or unfolded laundry in the utility room.
Every time she came over, Gray really just wanted to make a pot of coffee, force her to sit down in the living room, and simply talk to her. The way they had at lunch that first day.
“Did you hear me, Gray? I don’t think I should leave you,” she said softly.
He stroked her arm again just because he could. “Stay right here,”he wanted to say. “I heard you,” he said instead. “Go and come back. I’ll be okay.”
She was quiet for so long he chanced opening his eyes. The sunlight flooding the living room detonated inside his retinas and threw Meredith’s features into silhouette so he couldn’t read her expression. He shut his eyes again and held onto the sweet reassurance of her touch. The pain would ease. He would be able to see straight. And he’d get back to work. But every time his headaches went into overdrive, he would fear they’d never end, leaving him feeling this way until he had surgery or died.
Not today,he told himself.
“You don’t look okay. Not at all,” she said.
Gray managed a smile. “I’m sure you do, so we even out.”
He heard her smother a laugh, and she shifted beside him, sitting up straight instead of leaning close to him. Her arm slipped from his touch, but she replaced it with her hand. Gray held on, feeling a rush because she’d chosen it.
Any nurse would hold her patient’s hand,he told himself.
Fuck you,he answered back. And he memorized the welcome feel of her small hand in his.
“I need to do something for you,” she said, squeezing his hand. If she had any idea how it made him feel, she would probably never touch him again.
“Youaredoing something for me,” he said, letting his fingers squeeze back. Touch could mean so many things, couldn’t it? It could meanListen to me.It could meanThank you.She wouldn’t necessarily suspect it meantI can’t stop thinking about you.Would she? “You’re taking my dogs to the vet. I can’t do that.”
“You know what I mean. Something to make you feel better.”
Meredith was made of sweetness. Gray had begun to wonder if she ever thought about herself. As far as he could see, she spent an inordinate amount of time finding ways to help him or make his life better. Make him happy.
It was working.
Her cooking alone made him feel better — even a little stronger because he ate more often. That first night, Meredith had fixed him mac and cheese because he had nothing else. Since then, she’d made him home-cooked meals he’d never devote the time to make himself. They hadn’t been fancy, but always delicious, and better for him than pizza or Chinese delivery. She’d also stocked his pantry and fridge so he wasn’t skipping breakfast anymore.
He squinted through his eyelids to try to find her eyes, but he couldn’t. “Could you close the blinds and draw the curtains? And then come back here?”
“Of course.” He felt her leave, her hand slipping from his.
It was a gamble. She might not sit next to him and hold his hand, but if it were darker, the light wouldn’t be so vicious, and he could look at her. Even behind his eyelids, he could tell when the light softened and then softened further.
By some miracle, she came back to the couch, sat right next to him so her hip pressed against his, and she took his hand again. He blinked his eyes open. The light still hurt, but now he could see her face.
Gray grinned. He’d gambled and won.
“That’s better?” she asked, searching his face.
“It’s much better,” he said, drinking in hers. Judging from her expression, she’d missed the meaning in his words. Meredith clearly had no idea how beautiful she was, and that innocence made her even more beautiful.
