I can’t have slept for more than two or three hours, seeing as the sun hasn’t quite gone down yet. Definitely not enough sleep to feel rejuvenated after how long I’d been awake. That would explain the splitting headache.
I’m in the same position I fell asleep in, but Max’s arms are conspicuously missing. I sigh as I realize he likely left as soon as I fell asleep. The alcohol made it impossible for me to temper my vulnerability. I probably scared him off with my neediness.
Turning over, I find a glass of water and some aspirin on the white nightstand, and Max sitting in my desk chair staring at the dimly lit screen of his phone.
“You stayed?” I say, my voice hoarse with thirst.
He looks up from his phone. “I told you I would. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
I sit up in bed and reach for the glass of water. “I thought you were placating me.”
He smiles as he types something before tucking his phone in his pocket. “Your doorbell is popping off. I didn’t feel right answering it for you, but I think there’s a bunch of food and flowers on your doorstep.”
I swallow the aspirin with a gulp of water and place the glass back on the nightstand. “My mom told me that would happen. She probably posted about my sister on Facebook or Nextdoor. My parents are really close with the neighbors.”
I throw the blankets off my legs and realize, and I’m shocked to find I’m not wearing pants. A crooked smile spreads across his gorgeous face as I briskly cover myself up again.
He rises from the chair. “I’ll go down and bring the stuff inside, so you can get dressed.”
“Thanks.”
When he’s gone, I pull on my discarded jean shorts and meet him in the kitchen. The marble island is covered in three large flower arrangements and, by the looks of it, one casserole, one macaroni salad, and two bags of takeout from my favorite Greek restaurant. My mom must have told the neighbors I was home alone.
I’m glad I wasn’t awake to answer the door. It saved me the awkward burden of having a conversation with someone who really doesn’t know what to say but feels the need to say something anyway, because society has made them believe they’re a bad person if they don’t. Why does the grieving person have to shoulder the responsibility of easing someone else’s guilt?
I wish I could tell everyone to just send a text or an email. If I want to talk about it, I’ll respond. Don’t show up at my house unannounced. I appreciate the sentiment, but it feels so fucking intrusive. Let me have a fucking minute to grieve my sister.
I pluck the card off a large arrangement of stargazer lilies and carnations.
“So sorry for your unimaginable loss,” I say, reading the inscription aloud, but the sentiment feels hollow. I look up and nod at an enormous arrangement of white roses. “Who’s that from?”
He glances at it and shrugs. “You want me to read the card?”
“Please.”
He pulls the card out of the tiny envelope and reads, “Sorry about your sister. I’m here if you need to talk.”
He looks uncomfortable as he slides the card back in the envelope, but when he turns it over and reads the name on the outside he chuckles.
“Are you Coca-Colette?”
I roll my eyes as I snatch the card out of his hand. “It’s my neighbor. He’s had a crush on me for, like, ever. He’s been calling me that since I was ten or eleven.”
He doesn’t look amused anymore. “How old is he?”
I shrug as I place the card on the island, far away from Max. “I don’t know, like, a year or two older than me, so… twenty-two or twenty-three.”
His eyebrow lifts as if he’s not impressed with this information. “I can come up with a better nickname than that.”
The serious expression on his face makes me smile.
“Are you jealous of my neighbor and his lame nickname for me?”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I’m just saying I can do better.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Go ahead.”
He looks too damn cute as he screws up his face in deep concentration. “Does anyone else call you Coco? You know, like Coco Chanel?”
I cock an eyebrow as I wonder how the hell he knows who Coco Chanel is. “No, I don’t think anyone has ever called me Coco. You’d be the first.”
“I like being first.”
I’m unable to suppress a grin as I grab the casserole off the island to put it away.
“Did you eat or drink anything while I was asleep?”
The food in the glass dish is still warm, but the licorice-like smell of fennel coming from the casserole makes my stomach churn with nausea.
Max shakes his head. “No, but I should get going any—”
Without warning, the water and aspirin I just consumed comes shooting out of my mouth, landing on the foil-covered dish in my hands.
We both shout a different curse word at the same time.
“Oh, my God. This is so embarrassing,” I say as I carry the casserole to the sink on wobbly legs.
He takes the dish from my hands and gently pushes me aside. “I’ll clean this up. Just get some water and have a seat.”
Taking a few steps back, I bump into the island as I watch him open the cabinet under the sink. He slides the roll-out trash bin into position and dumps in the casserole, as if he’s done this a million times. Well, considering he’s a bartender, he’s probably cleaned up more vomit than the average person.
But it’s more than that. The way he seems to step into action at every sign of danger or illness makes me think he’s been taking care of people for most of his young life.
I make my way to the refrigerator and use the handle as support as I grab a bottle of water. When I turn around, he’s washing his hands. He uses a paper towel to dry off and tosses it in the bin, then he removes the liner and begins tying it up.
“You look like you pay rent here,” I say, sidling up next to him.
He doesn’t respond to my comment. And as I swish my mouth with water and spit it into the sink, I silently wonder if I’ve offended him. The cold water tastes sweet compared to the bitter vomit, making me sigh with relief. I rinse a few more times as he removes the bag and slides the empty trash bin under the sink.
“Are your bins outside or in the garage?”
“Outside,” I say, nodding toward the back door. “On the side of the house.”
He sets off without another word, and I take a seat on a barstool at the island to wait for him. When he returns, he stares at the food in front of me with trepidation. His mind seems to be weighing some important information.
“Do you think you can eat?” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen impatiently before putting it away. “I think you should try to eat something.”
“You can go if you have someplace you need to be.” I reach for the plastic bag of Greek food. “I appreciate your help, but I’ll be fine by myself.”
I curse myself as my voice wavers on my last sentence. Judging by the look on his face, my performance is not fooling him.
“You just hurled in the middle of a conversation. I’d hardly call that fine.”
“I have a sour stomach. I’ll feel better when I eat.”
He takes a seat on the barstool next to me and nudges my shoulder with his. The soft smile on his face is disarming.