Page 82 of The Man I Hate

As fond as I’d grown of Braxton, I knew only bits and pieces of what he may find solace in. Of those things, I was limited in what I could provide.

I walked past the three books he’d given me. A light bulb illuminated. I’d done everything except what he wanted to do on the day he became ill.

While he was in one of his periods of uninterrupted sleep, I picked up The History of Love.

I opened the cover, read the first few paragraphs to myself, and smiled. Then, I began to read the book out loud, to Braxton.

He was excited to provide me with the book, and equally eager for us to read them together. If his current state of being prevented him from reading it himself, it was only fitting that I read the book to him.

I read the first paragraph out loud, and then another. Before long, I’d finished a chapter. One chapter led to another. In no time I was submerged in the story and Braxton was lulled into a sound and uneventful sleep.

I continued to read long into the night. Driven in part by a wonderfully woven tale and in part by a feeling of necessity to comfort Braxton, I continued.

As the sun peeked from over the top of the Mediterranean home across the street, I realized I’d been reading to him for roughly ten hours. It was ten hours of uninterrupted sleep for him, which was nine more than he’d received for the past four days and nights.

When I finished the story a few moments later, it was obvious why he’d chosen the novel as an all-time favorite. The story—and the book—were things I’d cherish for a lifetime.

Exhausted, but unwilling to chance having Braxton slip back into his restlessness, I picked up Angela’s Ashes.

“Are you ready for Frank McCourt?” I asked, speaking to him through the earbud’s microphone.

I read the first chapter, and then the second. I had to stop after the second chapter, because I’d not only laughed so hard I nearly peed, I’d cried so violently I could no longer breathe.

Through my tears, I continued. “This one’s going to be tough, Dear.”

I realized I called Braxton Dear, out loud. I promptly dismissed it as being a snafu brought on by no sleep, little food, and hours upon hours of reading. Nevertheless, I liked the way it rolled off my tongue.

I made a cup of coffee, regained my composure, and continued. By the time four o’clock arrived, I was not quite halfway into the book. My emotions were all over the map. Frank McCourt’s memoir was taking me for a ride I wasn’t prepared for.

“We’re going to take a break for a while, Dear.” I had no more than spoken, and realized I’d done it, again. Feeling like a dork, I said an apology, even though I really didn’t need to. “Sorry, that just spilled out. I didn’t mean it.” I cleared my throat. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I don’t know what I’m trying to say. Just. We’re taking a break. Let’s leave it at that.”

Exhausted, I set the book aside. I promptly marched up the street to Marge’s house.

She was sitting on her stoop, drinking a glass of iced tea.

I sat down at her side. “No chores today?”

“I think I’m caught up for the moment.” She glanced around the yard. “It feels nice.” She reached to her side and produced another glass of tea. “Here, this one’s for you.”

“Oh.” I took the glass from her grasp. “Thank you.”

“It’s peach,” she said. “I like it strong.”

I took a drink of the tea. It was wonderful, with neither the tea or the peaches overpowering the drink.

I looked at the glass. It appeared to be nothing more than a glass of tea. Its taste was far more complex than its looks, that was for sure.

“Is this something you made?” I asked.

“Of course,” she replied. “It’s black tea and peach simple syrup. The simple syrup is nothing more than cooked peaches, sugar, and water. After the tea is made, you add the syrup to your liking. I thought it was a little strong, but I like it that way.”

“It’s refreshing,” I said.

“I’m glad you like it.” She shifted her shoulders to face me. “How’s our neighbor?”

“Much better,” I replied. “I’ve been reading to him.”

“Are you reading books you said he bought for you?”