Unsurprisingly, the shower was divine, and I likely took longer than necessary, but the indulgence helped clear the cobwebs from my brain. As I dressed, I reordered my mental to-do list, prioritizing the custom orders from my Etsy shop over the holiday market inventory and calculating how much sleep I could miss over the next three days to make up the studio time I’d lost this morning.
Leaving the bathroom, I tossed my dirty clothes in the hamper by the closet containing my efficiency washer and dryer. But then, just as my stomach gave a grumble, I heard the rustle of sheets. Peeking at Rex, I watched as he stretched again, his big body flexing and shifting on the too-small air mattress. I held my breath, certain he would wake up now. I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more.
False alarm. He didn’t wake up.
Hmm.
I started the coffee, retrieved the newspaper from outside, and then returned to the kitchen to cook breakfast. After a brief debate, I decided to splurge and use my celebration/commiseration bacon.
Some people celebrate an event or good fortune with a nice bottle of wine. Similarly, they commiserate bad fortune over a nice bottle of wine. I celebrated/commiserated with fancy bacon from the farmers’ market. I had no reason to celebrate this afternoon—what with my car stinking like puke and my morning plans ruined—but Rex would definitely wake up hungover. Greasy foods like bacon, fried eggs, hash browns, sausage, and buttered toast were all excellent for hangovers. If it made him feel even a little bit better, twenty-one dollars in bacon was a sacrifice I was willing to make.
Food made—everything but our eggs, because there’s nothing worse than cold eggs—I put his plate in the oven set on warm and ate my hash browns, toast, and sausage. Then I read the paper, frowning at the clock at intervals. An hour passed, then another. He stretched a few more times, all false alarms. Should I wake him up?
I couldn’t go to the studio until he left my apartment. Pacing to the kitchen and bringing my paper with me, I leaned against the countertop and tried to focus on reading the fine newsprint, but restlessness plagued me. How long is he going to sleep?
But then, just as I was about to resort to making loud noises with pots and pans, he stretched, and this time it was followed by a grunt.
Straightening away from the countertop and lowering the newspaper I hadn’t actually been reading, I lifted my chin so I could see him over the midcentury lounge chair in the living room between us. A second later, he grunted again. I stiffened. He was rousing. I exhaled relief and inhaled mild trepidation.
“What time is it?” The deliciously deep, sleep-roughened question made lovely heat bloom in my stomach, but I shoved the sensation away. I would not ogle the man. He was in my charge and deserved patience and kindness, not objectification.
Erecting a nurturing-focused force field to block my lusty instincts, I studied him. He blinked several times. Clearly, he was doing his darndest to keep his eyes open against the stinging afternoon brightness of the room.
“It’s two . . . ish, 2:11 in the afternoon, if you want to be precise.” I turned my back to him, picking up my spatula and flipping on the stovetop. Cracking four eggs, then another, then a sixth because he was a huge giant of a man, I scrambled the yolks and whites in the pan.
He grunted again but then silence stretched, long enough for me to finish cooking the scrambled eggs and add a fair amount of shredded cheddar cheese on top. I resisted the urge to turn around. My apartment was small, and if I’d been in his situation, I would want some privacy during the first painful moments of sobriety.
“Did you . . .” he started haltingly.
When he didn’t finish the thought, I prompted, “Yes?” careful to keep my words light and soft, knowing he must be suffering a terrible headache. Likewise, I was careful to make as little noise as possible as I removed the skillet from the burner and spooned the eggs onto two waiting plates, loading his up. See? Even in a hurry, I can nurture.
“Never mind,” he muttered.
“Are you hungry?” I set the plates down on my tiny table by the glass door which led out to the patio, where I’d hosed him off last night. Careful to keep my eyes averted—wanting to give him as much privacy as possible—I hurried back to the kitchen on bare feet, debating whether I should take the rest of his breakfast out of the oven now or later. “I made eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and toast. Greasy is good for hangovers.” Feed him, drive him . . . wherever, get to the studio, and get to work.
Sheets rustled. “You . . . feel okay?” he asked. The question wasn’t odd, but there was an odd note in his voice as he asked it.
I paused before giving him the truth. “I feel fine, thanks.”
I felt tired, sore from a double shift yesterday, plus supporting his weight as I prepped him for bed, plus cleaning out the car and not going to sleep until after sunrise. But I was, in general—all things considered—fine. I would feel better once I finished making those cauldron mugs at the studio, but I didn’t share that either.
My brain preoccupied with rushing through the next half hour as quickly as possible, I glanced at him. Rex had sat up and the sheet had pooled around his waist. His chest was bare because, after he’d thrown up all over my car, I couldn’t let him sleep in pukey clothes.
Presently ignoring his scandalously sexy forearms, I focused on his pale features. His eyes closed, his face drawn, Rex seemed to be in pain. Poor guy.
A pang of guilt had my chest feeling tight. I needed to stop rushing him. Open studio hours were over at ten tonight, but I could bring some of my projects home, work on slip casting here, cleaning up leather hard bisqueware. No biggie.
“You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to.” I gentled my voice further. “There’s pain relievers next to the bed if you want to go back to sleep.”
He opened his eyes but didn’t look at me. In fact, as I watched him cast his attention all over the room, I felt certain he was pointedly not looking at me.
Hmm. Is he embarrassed? A burst of compassion and care warmed me.
But then, in a tone that felt like a verbal slap across the face, he demanded, “Just give me my things.”
I straightened my spine.
Wait.
Wait a minute. Was he . . .?
Is he angry?
Yes. He was angry. Angry and not looking at me.
I knew Rex. I’d basically been his stalker for thirteen years. In all that time I’d cataloged the various shades of his taciturn tones. Ninety percent of the time he sounded just plain grumpy to the untrained ear. Whereas I knew the difference between a deadpan, dispassionate delivery and an angry, seething setdown. He’d just employed the latter.
My stomach and heart switched places, the realization leaving me cold and, quite frankly, stunned. It took me a moment—studying the irritated glint in his eyes and the way his jaw ticked—before finally managing to parrot, “Your things?”
“Yes. My things. Now.”
He’s mad. At me. Really, really mad. I exhaled a silent breath that burned in my chest and throat. What a spoiled brat!
I mean, yes. I’d served him one-and-a-half beers while he’d been drunk. Fine. Yeah. I could understand him being upset about that. But he’d barfed all over my car! Had I complained? No. I’d told him it was no big deal, begged him not to feel bad, then I’d taken care of his sloppy, drunk ass. I’d brushed his teeth and sacrificed twenty-one dollars in bacon this morning to help him feel better. The blobfish.