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“I don’t have a bread box.” If that was the game she wanted to play, I would let her, at least for now.
“Of course you don’t. Do you even have anything in your fridge that isn’t leftover takeout?”
“Maybe,” I shot back. “Would you, if you didn’t have Aaron cooking for you all the time?”
Her lips pulled into an amused grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Maybe.” I wanted to know even more than I would allow myself to think about. Did Zola cook? Did she enjoy cooking? Was her apartment neat and tidy or messy before she moved to Jackson’s Ridge? There were so many things about her that I didn’t know, didn’t think I wanted to know, but now they ran through my mind on a constant loop. “Tell me.”
“Tell you what? If I keep real food in my fridge?” She laughed and pushed away from the table, standing slowly on slightly shaky legs as she grabbed spoons, bowls and napkins.
“For starters, yes.”
“Sometimes. I keep the basics like fruit and yogurt, mustard, ketchup and hot sauce, bread and cheese.” She flashed a tired smile. “And there are usually a few takeout containers that make excellent meals the night after delivery.” Zola wiggled her eyebrows in an expression I was becoming intimately familiar with.
“Dinner is served.”
Zola surveyed the bowls of piping hot stew and warm buttered bread with a hungry smile. “This looks and smells fantastic. Thank you, Drew.”
I shrugged off the compliment, unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong and I couldn’t see it. “A man’s gotta eat.”
She laughed. “So you came here to raid my fridge rather than stop at the market for kitchen essentials? Good to know.”
“Basically. Is that a problem?”
“Heck no, if that’s all it takes to get someone to make a delicious, homecooked meal for me, I’ll do all the shopping.” Her smile went from wide and bright to dim in just a few seconds, but it wasn’t sadness swimming in her eyes, it was something else.
I let the all the possibilities play out in my mind before I said anything to Zola. I hadn’t seen her in a few days so the only symptom I knew was exhaustion, but if I could find a way to get her to talk about more symptoms I could ease my mind. “How long have you been feeling this way?”
She shrugged and forced another spoonful into her mouth. “A few days, maybe a little over a week. It’s difficult to tell with my schedule lately.”
It was an answer but it wasn’t a complete answer. “Depression or anxiety?” She didn’t answer and I kept my eyes focused on my bowl while I spoke. “Exhaustion is a symptom of a myriad of illnesses, as you well know and this seems like more than too much sex and reading until late into the night.” I ran down a list of possible health conditions responsible for her fatigue but Zola said nothing. “Well?” I looked across the table to find her head resting on one hand, eyes closed and her breathing deep and relaxed.
She’d fallen asleep.
More worried than ever before, I hauled her into my arms and laid her on the sofa before I covered her with a blanket. Luckily my work bag and laptop were out in the car, which meant I could keep a careful eye on Zola while I tried to work out what was wrong with her, all the while ignoring how the scene felt a lot like a relationship that neither of us had asked for.
Zola
I was a chicken. A big fat, yellow-feathered, clucking hot mess of a chicken. A coward. Instead of marching to Persy’s office the day after she’d drawn blood and took urine samples to help figure out what was wrong with me, I called in sick. The next day was spent in the operating room which gave me the chance to avoid Persy and Drew. The third day I just stayed in bed, completely still for hours, praying to the gods of science and medicine to send me some cure of nausea.
Then Drew had made it impossible to avoid him by showing up on my doorstep in the middle of a really good nap.
But there was no more avoidance techniques. It was time to face reality. To come to terms with the possibility that I was pregnant with Drew’s baby, and if I was, it was time to make decisions. And plans. Lots and lots of plans. “All right, Doc, give it to me straight.” I sat in Persy’s office, a determined expression on my face to hide the anxiety that turned my stomach into a bigger mess than the nausea that I refused to call morning sickness.
Persy arched one dark brow in my direction, silently calling me out on my attempt at bravery. “Doc?”
