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“You should have just saidoffense.”
He chuckles, but the concern continues to crease his brows. “You lose a fight or something?”
I laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
“Am I ever going to get to watch you fight?” he asks.
The question saddens me more than I would have thought. The truth is, I have no idea if I’ll ever get back to the cage. “What’s that?” I ask as I try to peer into the grocery bags he has placed on my counter. Changing the subject is safer. I avoid sitting at the barstool because barstools and Rory in the same room are a dangerous proposition, and I’m still weak from my first round of treatment.
“Well,” he says. “You said you were sick, so I brought supplies. You know I’m a doctor, right?”
“Yeah, you mentioned.”
He starts pulling out items and turns them on the counter so they face me. First in the lineup is a tall white container. “Chicken noodle soup,” he says. I hope it’s better than what they serve at the hospital, but I stay quiet. “Crackers.” He pulls out a six-pack of ginger ale and puts that in the fridge.
“You really didn’t have to do all this, Rory.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “I wanted to. And that’s not all.” He keeps pulling items from the bags, and I can’t help but laugh when I see the rest of his purchases. There’s a familiar blue container of Vick’s Vapor Rub—orvaporúas we call it in Mexico—and a tall candle with theVirgen de la Guadalupeon it.
“You’re unreal,” I say through a laugh that sends a small shock of pain through my incisions. I play it off and keep talking. “How did you know?”
“You okay?” He asks with concern.
I scramble through my brain for a lie. “Yeah. Just a bit of a stomachache.”
He nods. “I searched online for Mexican home remedies, and these two items came up a lot. Sprite and lemon did too, but I thought it might be a bit much.”
“Oh,thatwould be a bit much? How’d you think to do this?”
“Every culture has its own home remedies. It’s kind of interesting to a doctor. Would you like some soup?”
I shake my head. “Not really hungry yet. Later?”
“Sure. You staying hydrated?”
“Okay, you know you’re not actually my doctor, right?”
Rory’s hands shoot up in surrender and then he places the soup container in the fridge too.
“Well, thanks for stopping by, and you know, checking in.”
“You kicking me out?”
“No, I just—” I bite my lip and look away from him. “I can’t imagine you’d want to hang out with me while I’m sick. And besides, it’s kind of gross. I’m not ready for you to hear those sounds.”
“If I may, I would like to counter those points,” he says seriously as he counts fingers. “One, I’m a doctor. No sound to escape you should embarrass you. Two, yes, hanging out with you is exactly what I want. Three, if you are worried about getting me sick, don’t. Work a year at a hospital, and you will have the immune system of a god. And four, I would cheer you up.”
“Fine,” I say, happier than I would have liked. “But no funny business. I’m just being lazy on the couch and watching TV.”
“That’s exactly what I would have prescribed,” he says and kicks off his shoes before taking his spot on the couch. “Seriously, though. I’m sorry you aren’t feeling well.”
I sit next to him, and it must be too far for his liking because he wraps his arms around me and scoots me to his side so I can cuddle next to him. I bask in the warmth of his body, and he keeps one arm around me as we scroll through our options.
He makes me watch a sci-fi show about androids who raise children on another planet, and it isn’t half bad. I make him watch the most recent female flyweight MMA championship. He’s like a little kid, staring amazed at the screen. It’s almost as if he can’t believe women are so tough.
“I take it you don’t like to watch sports?”
He shakes his head. “Normally no. I prefer to be active rather than sit and watch others be active, but that fight was pretty epic.”
