Page 52 of Midlife Crisis

“Want to be better than good,” he mutters, his chest vibrating as he speaks. His heart beats a steady rhythm under my ear, and my lids grow heavy.

“You could be somebody’s someone,” I whisper, growing comfortable on his chest. He says something, but I don’t hear him.

When I wake next, I’m in bed with my robe wrapped around me, wearing a tank top and my underwear. I’m on top of my duvet with three pillows under my head. I feel a kink in my neck and a headache like Ronin’s marching band strutting over my brain.

“Holy God,” I moan, holding my forehead and squeezing my eyes shut against the brightness of morning. My head rolls to face the clock, and I curse again. Mother of all things holy, my head. Noticing the time, I swing my legs off the bed and shakily press myself upward. Voices from downstairs alert me the boys are awake, and I need to explain myself. My legs tremble when I stand. Reaching for the wall, I think I can fake it, but I race to the bathroom. Expelling the last of anything left in my stomach, I stand to see a pallid face cleaned of makeup and my hair piled on my head. I don’t recall washing my face or twisting up my hair. I look like death.

Making my way down the stairs, I stop when I hear one voice in particular.

“Don’t you worry about your mom. She’ll be fine. Just a little under the weather.” His smoky, early morning voice warms my heart, and my knees collapse. I crumple to the stairs and sit.

“Is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?” Elston teases, and I hear Hank chuckle.

“Who gets ham? Want mustard?” Is he making them lunch? “Chips?” he questions.

“Only one crunchy, Mom says. We have to have a fruit.”

“Good plan,” Hank adds after Liam sets him straight on my lunch rules.

“Ronin, what do you want?” My head tips to the wall as I listen to Hank handle my boys and their morning routine. In fact, he might be handling it better than I do. I’m usually racing around, picking up clothing and barking out schedules. When I worked at Bigle, the morning chaos was even worse. It’s one of the reasons I’ve been toying with going out on my own and working for myself. I could set my schedule to fit my needs, not the other way around.

When the kids leave for school, the kitchen grows quiet, and I close my eyes with the peace.

“You’re alive,” Hank teases as he stands at the bottom steps, holding a plate with two halves of toast and a small glass of something resembling a smoothie.

“I think I’ll live.” My voice cracks, hoarse from crying and throwing up. Brushing my teeth has done wonders for my spirits. “But I’m tired. I need to shower and get to work.” I don’t move, though.

“I called in for you. I think I might have some pull with the boss.” He winks as he steps up the two stairs and sits next to me.

“I don’t want to seem irresponsible. Last night proved I clearly can be.”

“Lady, we all need to let our hair down at some point. Typically, it’s not into a toilet, but—”

“Ugh. Gross. Did that happen?”

“Nope. I had it.” The comment turns my head to him. He took care of me. My hair. My face. Even my robe. It was all him, there for me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Anytime.” He leans forward for his quick kiss. “You brushed your teeth.”

“I had to. Besides, how could you kiss me otherwise?”

“I’d kiss you any way I could, little lady.” He makes me laugh, but it hurts my head, and I wince.

“Toast?” He holds out the plate.

“I think I’ll pass for now.” Setting the plate and the glass on the stair, he turns to me, scooping under my knees and around my back.

“Okay then. Back to bed for now.”

I giggle as he struggles at first, tossing me gently to situate me so he can carry me up the staircase. Setting me on my bed, he heads for my bathroom as I fall over to my side. Returning, he holds my hairbrush in his hand. He crawls behind me, prompting me to sit up, then slips his legs on either side of mine. He removes my crazily wound hair and begins to brush it. The methodic movement soothes, and I close my eyes as he strokes over the long tresses. Is there any greater pleasure than having your hair brushed by someone else? We remain quiet for several minutes. Eventually, he separates my hair into three sections and braids it.

“Sweet cheese, Hank. Why aren’t you married?” My eyes remain closed, languishing in the pleasure of him working with my hair. He chuckles softly.

“Guess it wasn’t for me,” he says, and I remember what he told me. He asked several times, but she always said no.

“She must have been crazy,” I whisper.