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I open my mouth. He shoves pasta in. I chew.
And it’s good, so good, but I’m not sure if it’s because of the pasta or because of him. I don’t know why the universe sent him careening into my lap, but all I can think is thank you.
Not just because I’m sick.
But because I’ve been so lonely.
I’ve needed a friend.
I’ve needed a person.
He’s my person.
Which just brings me back to not telling him. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right? I convince myself of this, and I eat each bite like Eve from the garden leading Adam into Hell.
I’ve become that person.
Because selfishly, I just want to be normal, I just want to imagine this is a normal relationship, that we’re eating pasta on a couch, that we’re going to complain about work in the morning, make coffee, and yawn while pouring old cereal.
It sounds like a dream.
He’s a dream.
I open my mouth again.
Quinn puts the bowl down. “Okay listen, I know you’re sick, but I also know you have full access to your own hands, so while you feed yourself like a big girl, I’m going to go back to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of wine, a reward if you will for making good pasta, and come back. Your only job is to finish that bowl, hydrate, rest, and tell me how awesome I am.”
I make a face. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
His eyebrows arch. “You mean you can’t tell me how awesome I am?”
“Not that one, that’s easy, you’re my hero, I meant resting, I don’t want to rest when you’re here, I want to jump you. I want to take advantage, right now I want to lick your abs, grab you by your long hair, tug a bit, and beg you to screw me, but sure, yeah I’ll just… rest.”
His eyes dart toward the kitchen, then back to me, then back to the kitchen. He runs his hands down his face.
He turns around like he can’t make eye contact and runs his hand down the front of his jeans.
“You okay?” I laugh.
“Perfect,” he says so devastatingly that I laugh out loud.
“Not funny, stop laughing, I’m seconds away from tossing you around and you don’t feel good and that’s wrong, it’s wrong Quinn, what the hell are you thinking? What’s wrong with you?”
“Are you, like, third personing yourself right now?” I laugh so hard it hurts my stomach.
He doesn’t turn around, but points his thumb behind him right at me. “Not cool, so not cool, I’ll be right back, got a date with a cold shower and my hand.”
“Does it work when it’s cold?”
“Shut up, Chloe, before I shove“—he stops walking—“this is hard.”
“So are you.”
“I hate you.” He keeps walking.
“I won’t be mad if you yell my name!”
He flips me off and slams the bathroom door.
