She swallows, but it's followed by a cringe.
"When is the last time you took anything for the fever?" I ask.
"I'm on amoxicillin."
I anticipated this. Because as well as she takes care of her son, she seems to think she's invincible. I dig into the pocket of my sweats and pull out a bottle of ibuprofen, open it, and pour four into my palm, holding them out to her.
She takes each one from me with a scowl on her face.
But she does it.
And then the strangest thing happens, she hands me the remote, lays down on the couch, and puts her head in my lap.
"50 First Dates," she says.
Ten minutes into the movie, Jade's breathing slows and her body relaxes. I don't dare move, but I take advantage of her slumber and examine the small apartment. The outside was nothing of note, a narrow three-story home with wood exterior stairs leading up to her second-floor apartment. It could be in better shape, but it could also be worse.
Her entire apartment is visible from where I sit on the couch against the wall. The kitchen is about ten square feet, big enough for one person. I could stir soup on the stove and open the fridge without moving a foot. It's small, but tidy and comfortable. It doesn't feel sparse like I was expecting.
And I definitely wasn't expecting the sketchbook I find on the side table open to a drawing of me. In it, I'm smiling, my hand gripping the back of my neck. Carefully, I pick it up and turn back a page. In this one, Coop and I are playing a board game. I flip back another page. I'm sleeping on my back, the sheet tangled in my legs. There's me with a whisk and a bowl, and another of me and Coop on the couch, controllers in our hands.
Every single one is me. I flip to the first page. You can't see my face but the tattoos drawn on my back give it away.
This is proof she loves me too. She just doesn't know it yet.
Or won't admit it.
It's okay though. I've already been on this road for forty-one years, and I'll keep driving in circles if it means waiting for her to catch up.
Chapter thirty-four
Jade
Imove the flight confirmation to the 'travel' folder in Mateo's inbox. He flies back to Baltimore in late January to sign the closing papers on his condo. He didn't even have to remind me to book business class this time. I'm getting better at this assistant shit.
And things are picking up for him. Now that he can drive and he's moving better, we've added quite a bit to his calendar. Mostly local high schools and a few meet and greets the team's new PR guy, Hudson, asked him to do.
I'm also getting the hang of his social media. It's about time too, because I think he was gearing up to ask Addie or Coop to take over.
"Did you call that real estate agent yet?" I ask.
Mateo looks up from where he lies on the floor. He's been taking his PT homework far more seriously, sometimes I think pushing himself a little too hard.
"Nope," he says.
"Why don't you build?"
He sits up. "Because I don't know what I need."
"Two bedrooms, three baths, a kitchen, a living room and a pool," I tell him, ticking each one off with my fingers.
"Why two bedrooms?" he asks, tilting his head as if he'd never considered it.
"Your bedroom and a guest bedroom."
"What if I get married and have kids? It wouldn't be our house. It would always just be mine."
He lays back down and props his feet back on the large exercise ball.
