Page 98 of Love Overdose: St. Louis

So had mine.

The sun was lowering when we returned home. Malik stayed awake long enough for me to change him, give him his evening medication, and settle him in front of a movie. By the second scene, his eyes had closed again.

Elijah carried the bags to the kitchen while I transferred Malik into bed.

I positioned him carefully and pulled the blanket over him. Spider-Man rested beside his pillow.

“Did you have fun today?” I whispered.

Malik’s eyes remained closed, but a smile touched his mouth. I kissed his forehead and left the door open a few inches. The kitchen was clean when I returned. The containers from lunch were stacked inside the refrigerator. Malik’s water bottle stood washed beside the sink. Elijah leaned against the counter with his sleeves pushed to his forearms.

“You didn’t have to clean.”

“I know.”

I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around his waist.

He held me without asking what I needed. His warmth surrounded me, carrying the faint scents of soap and the cologne that had clung to my pillows more than once over the past six weeks.

I rested my cheek against his chest.

“Thank you for today.”

“I enjoyed it.”

“I know, but…” I drew back enough to see his face. “You made it easy.”

His hands settled at my waist.

“That matters to you.”

“More than I can explain.”

“You don’t have to explain it.”

I looked toward the hallway.

“There are things I’ve gotten used to doing alone. Even when Mama or my friends are with me, I’m still the person keeping track of everything. His chair. His medication. His food. Whether he’s getting tired, whether a place is really accessible or only says it is.”

“I noticed.”

“I know you did.”

That was what frightened me. He noticed without turning my life into a collection of burdens he deserved praise for sharing.

“I haven’t had to tell you what to do every second,” I said. “You ask once. Then you remember.”

“I care about both of you.”

The certainty in his voice filled the room.

My fingers tightened in his shirt. Elijah had become part of our days. He called Malik on video when work kept him at the hospital. He kept superhero fruit snacks in his pantry. Malik’s communication board had a photograph of him among the people he recognized. And my body had learned the sound of his car outside before I reached the window.

“My mother wants you to come for Thanksgiving,” I said.

His expression softened. “She invited me yesterday.”

“She did?”