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For some reason, my imagination is playing tricks on me. The incessant knocking on my front door feels more like a dream as I squint beneath the down comforter I’m buried under. Nana Noel wouldn’t knock on my door, she’s more likely to barge in. Though I saw her in the garden when I came home, she’s more than well aware of my migraine.
Still, the knocking continues.
Shoving the comforter down, I glare up at the twirling fan on the ceiling as if it personally is the cause for my visitor. Several seconds tick by. Each drawn out as I pray whoever it is disappears. But the rapping of knuckles continues.
Getting out of bed is not on my list of things to do this afternoon, but it seems I’m left with no other choice. Shuffling out of bed and down the hallway, I don’t bother with pleasantries as I open the front door with far more force than necessary. The sunlight immediately sears my eyes, causing a pricking sensation to spread and a pouding to begin in my brain.
“Bex?” Thorin’s voice penetrates from beyond the blurry vision I’m trying to see through. His blob of a shadow moves closer, his height suddenly blocking out the sunlight from hitting my eyes directly.
“What are you doing here?” I try to sound affronted, but it croaks out of my dry throat.
“Checking on you.” He steps forward, causing me to shuffle backwards as he slips through the entrance.
He’s…here? Checking on me? I discreetly reach down and dig my nails into my palm to see if I’m dreaming, but the sharp sting confirms this is my reality. My brow furrows in confusion. “But why?”
Thorin pauses in the middle of my living room. He doesn’t look at me. Instead he takes off his blazer, tossing it haphazardly over the edge of the armrest and begins to uncuff his sleeves.
When he continues to stay quiet, I move further into the room and squint at him while I cross my arms over my chest. “Why are you here, Thorin? We don’t have any charity events scheduled until next week.” At least, I think that’s what Detrick emailed me about earlier. We’re about to slam face-first into November, with all the Christmas awareness fundraisers, charity events, and not to mention homeless youth awareness month which creates a whole slew of fundraisers done by communities and schools.
Finally he turns to look at me and says the last thing I ever expect him to say, “I’m here because you are in pain and you need someone to look after you.”
No one looks after me. Not since Mom died. Even Nana Noel wasn’t too sure what to do with a teenager, so she left me to my own devices even while giving me affirmations of love. And Dad was nowhere to be seen. I learned earlier on in my grief to look after myself.
Silently, I watch Thorin invade my home as if he owns the place, like he has arightto be here. He moves away from the living area towards the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets at random to peer inside. I have no idea what he could be looking for, and as the throbbing behind my eyes starts up again, I don’t particularly care.
Suddenly Thorin moves towards me with his hand outstretched. “Take these,” he orders. “Then go lie down. I’ll make you something light on your stomach and you can eat when you wake up.”
My hand moves on his cue, catching the pills he offers from my medicine cabinet before he turns towards the fridge and begins pulling out eggs and butter and cheese.
“Bex, go take those and lay down. I’ll bring your food to you when it’s done.”
“But–”
He sighs. Bracing his hands on the countertop, he levels me with an exasperated look. “Let me take care of you.”
“I don’t understand why you want to.”
He makes a sound in the back of his throat. “I think you know the reason.” TheI like you and don’t understand how to go about thisgoes unsaid, as it has ever since we brought up the weirdness existing between us.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“No, I shouldn’t.” His immediate acceptance only adds fuel to the fire burning confusion in my belly. “But I’m here anyway.”
“This is complicated,” I point out.
“I know.”
I squint again, trying to look in his eyes as he turns on a burner and begins to heat up a pan. “Are you high?”
A smirk tilts the corners of his lips. “No, Bex, I’m not high. I’m having a decent day. I decided to stop ignoring my desire to see you and came when I heard you weren’t feeling well.” He uses a spatula to point towards one of my chairs under my breakfast nook. “If you’re not going to nap immediately, sit there and ask your questions.”
Scowling, I slip into a chair. “Don’t order me around like I’m an invalid. I have a migraine, I’m not three.”
“You deserve someone to be concerned about your welfare.”
I can’t stop the snort and sarcastic comment from leaving my mouth. “Oh and you want to be that person?”
We stare at each other long enough for an uncomfortable squeeze to take residence around my throat and heart. His lungs seem to have stopped working as he merely stares at me, even while going through the motions of making scrambled eggs in the skillet. When they’re done, he breaks eye contact long enough to plate them and slide them across the few feet of counter separating us.
