Page 109 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

Maybe it will be him giving up on me and leaving me to bed rot until I die. It’s probably what I deserve. A little fidgeting movement catches my eye, and I look down to see Damien spinning the protective ring I made him around his thumb—catch it on the same arm that wound up with the red band around its wrist. I remember that Damien and I are entwined in far more ways than one, and it shifts something inside of me, opens a window to let a little fresh air in.

“I’m right here, baby. I’m not going anywhere,” he says, right on time. Right when I’m reminding myself of it. The surreal tilt of the world flattens out by a few degrees. And I feel something tangible and real for the first time after being outside of my body for a couple of days.

“I don’t feel good,” I say.

“I bet,” Damien says, brushing his fingertips through my hair.

“No, I... I mean I don’t know if I can get myself out of bed,” I say.

“Ah,” he says. “Could I help you with that?”

I think about it for a few moments and then finally nod. “Okay,” I say.

“Yeah?” he asks, carefully, like he can’t believe it. “We’re getting out of bed?”

“Yeah,” I croak. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says.

He gets up and circles around the bed until he’s standing in front of me. “Up we go,” he says, lifting me without even an exhale of exertion. He carries me to the couch and kneels in front of me after setting me down on it. His two-toned eyes search mine as he waits a few moments, holding me upright—holding me steady.

“Any auras?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Alright,” he says before pulling out his cell phone and handing it to me. It’s already playing Practical Magic. For the first time in almost a week, my lips curve with a smile. “You watch this. I’m going to make you some breakfast.”

I sink into the couch and let the comfort of the familiar movie bring me back to life a little bit more. After a while, Damien sits next to me, giving me a pumpkin muffin, the top separated from the bottom, both with generous pads of butter that melt on the warmed pastry. There’s also a bowl of berries and cut peaches, and a bit of cheese cut into cute little triangles and arranged like sunrays around a single raspberry.

Nothing too heavy, nothing too hot, but also nothing too healthy. The appetite I claimed I didn’t have just a few moments ago suddenly returns, my mouth watering as I pick up the top of the muffin and sink my teeth into it. Little bits of streusel crunch between my teeth as I focus on the satisfying texture of the dense pastry. When I let out a contented sigh, I think I hear Damien release a sigh of his own. A sigh of relief. He pulls my head to his lips and gives me a lingering kiss right above my ear.

“I’m sorry,” I say again after I swallow.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says. “I just worried that I made a mistake in bringing home the bombshell I did. I just... I know nothing is perfect, but I’m so relieved to see you at least eating something.”

“Pumpkin muffins are my weakness,” I say.

He chuckles and kisses the side of my head again, like he can’t help but show the affection. “Yeah?” he asks. “Mine too. I asked Roxie to make these. They’re obnoxiously good at baking, and I knew I couldn’t bring some sort of Starbucks bullshit to the best cook alive.”

“Now you’re just kissing my ass,” I say as I take another bite, relishing the pleasant texture of a walnut coated in a sugary, streusel topping.

“I can kiss other parts too,” he teases. “If that would help.”

The flirtation comes out tentative and gentle. Like he’s not sure he should be making jokes like that quite yet. Like he’s doing his best to meet me where I’m at. I love him for that. I love him so much.

My lips curve again despite the way my insides have been tied in knots for the last almost-week. “Oh, I’m very aware of what you can do,” I say.

His eyes warm with hesitant hope. It makes me feel guilty. It’s been hard to take myself out of my own crisis of identity, but now that Damien is carefully extracting me from it, my empathy centers are coming back online, and I’m seeing the last few days through his eyes.

Coming home with complicated news about your partner’s estranged parent. Doing your best to keep her together while she’s spiraling until she eventually cries herself into a semi-catatonic state. Trial and error to try and get her out of said semi-catatonic state, only to have her crack and lose it on you.

I can’t seem to swallow the bite I’m chewing past the lump in my throat.

“I’ve been fucking awful to you,” I say as tears blur my vision.

“Hey, that’s alright,” he says, bracketing my face in his hands and wiping my tears away with his thumbs. “That’s okay. I’m your boyfriend, if I can’t take a little rough handling when the earth is cracking under your feet, then I don’t deserve you. That’s what I’m here for.”

“That’s not what you’re here for. You’re not here to be my punching bag,” I say.