by R. C. Martin
I peel myself from off the couch, shuffling my feet against the floor as I slowly make my way across the room. My whole body aches, and I’m sure I look as great as I feel—which is like shit. That’s why, when I reach my destination, I lean against the barrier that separates us with no intention of opening up so long as Irene’s on the other side.
“Thank you so much, Irene. I seriously owe you one,” I mutter lamely. “I don’t want you to even chance catching this shit, so you can leave the bag out there. I’ll grab it when you’re gone.”
“Okay, hon. I hope you feel better soon! We’ve totally got you covered at work for the next few days, so don’t worry about that, either.”
“You guys are the best,” I call out, managing a weak smile.
“Call or text if you need anything else.”
She knocks twice more, signaling her departure, and I wait until I can no longer hear her footsteps on the stairs before retrieving her care package from my doorstep. Looking inside of the bag, I find everything I asked for. Four cans of chicken noodle soup, a box of saltine crackers, and some sleepy-time tea. I haven’t eaten all day, so I force myself into the kitchen to make myself some soup before I lay back down.
The flu came at me from out of left field. I knew that I was feeling a little under the weather yesterday, but when I went to bed last night, I thought I could sleep it off. Even after sleeping in late, I woke up feeling awful. I hated to call into work, because I know nobody likes to cover a Sunday evening shift, but there was no way anyone would want to buy a drink from my sniffling ass.
It doesn’t take me long to heat up my meal, and I manage to consume one bowl before I decide I need to lay down again. I make it halfway to the couch before I look up to my bed, my chest filled with longing. I want so badly to climb under my covers with my laptop and fall asleep watching countless episodes of Suits. Except, the thought of tackling the stairs when I just had an entire bowl of liquid, which will inevitably make me have to pee—meaning a trip back down those stairs—has me trudging my way back to the sofa.
I curl underneath my blanket and close my eyes. Sleep starts to tug me under its spell, and just as I surrender, my phone rings. Groaning, I lethargically reach for the device, my heart sinking when I see My Lover is calling. It isn’t until this very moment that I remember that tomorrow is Monday. Monday afternoons have become ours. It’s the one lunch hour that he promises me every week. He’s built me into his day, and it’s a standing date I look forward to. Sometimes, if our schedules mesh, he’ll come over after work when I have the night off, but that didn’t happen last week. He was busy this weekend, too. Now I’m sick—which means we’ll miss our Monday lunch date, and I don’t know when I’ll see him again. I’m so disappointed, I forget to answer the phone.
Snapping out of my thoughts, I call him back immediately.
“Hey,” he greets warmly after only one ring. “I thought I was going to miss you.”
“Sorry, I’m really out of it today.”
“What’s wrong, angel? You don’t sound like yourself.”
I smirk at his kind way of telling me that I sound awful. “I caught the flu, which means you shouldn’t come over tomorrow, which makes me hate the flu even more than I already did.”
“I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Do you need anything? We’re having dinner at my parents’ house tonight, but I could sneak away before that and drop by.”
“That’s really sweet of you, baby, but you can’t get the flu. You’ve got a state to govern. Anyway, Irene just left. She brought me some soup and tea. I’ll be okay.”
“All right. Listen, I don’t want to keep you. Especially given that you need to rest. I just called to hear your voice.”
“I miss you,” I whisper.
“And I you. As soon as you get better, we’ll go out.”
“Out?” I ask, lifting my eyebrows in surprise. “We haven’t been out since—”
“I know. Our first date.”
My stomach tingles hearing him say our first date, my mind filling with memories of our time at Coors Field.
“I’ll think of something.”
“Maybe something that will give me an excuse to wear a little black dress?”
Chuckling softly, he replies, “Well, now I want to see you in a little black dress, so yes.”
“Okay,” I murmur through a grin.
Only Michael could make me smile when I feel like death. I’m so gone for him.
“Get some sleep. I’ll call you soon.”
We say our goodbyes, and even though I wish we could have talked for longer, I hold on to the happiness I feel having been promised a real date. When I drift into a deep sleep, I do so with a small smile still lingering on my face.
Michael
IT’S A QUARTER to one when I arrive at Blaine’s apartment. I hurry to the fifth floor, aware that my trip to two different stores shed more time off of my scheduled lunch than I had anticipated. With only forty minutes left before I need to head back to the office, I don’t plan on wasting another second outside of Blaine’s company. I haven’t seen her since last week—flu or no flu, there was no way she was going to convince me to stay away.
I knock twice with no answer. I lift my fist to knock a third time, but the door swings open, revealing my sick angel. She’s got dull circles under her eyes, and her nose is red and raw. Her wavy hair is loose, a little messier than usual, and tucked behind her ears. Her legs are bare, save the skimpy, bright pink, cotton shorts she’s got on; and her white t-shirt—which reads: NOPE. Not Today—covers her obviously bra-less tits. She’s as disheveled as I’ve ever seen her, and yet I still want to kiss her.
“What—what are you doing here?” she stammers, shaking her head in disbelief. “I thought—”
“You thought I’d miss the one day this week that I’ve made sure I can see you?” Stepping toward her, I grab hold of the back of her neck and press a kiss on top of her head. Speaking into her hair, I mumble, “You thought wrong, Blaine.”
“Michael, what if you get—”
Interrupting her once more, I assure her, “I got the flu shot a few months ago.”
“Okay, but that doesn’t mean—”
“My God, you are so stubborn,” I say on a laugh. “Let me in, angel.”
She doesn’t move her feet, but tilts back her head to look up at me. After a stare down she has no chance of winning, she seems to lose energy before she whispers, “Hi.”
“Hi,” I say, speaking through a knowing grin. I press a kiss against her warm forehead and then decide it’s time for me to start doling out instructions. “Go lay down. I brought you something.”
“‘Kay,” she finally concedes, turning to leave me at the door.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, closing us in and heading straight for the kitchen.
Her voice soft and tired as she makes her way up to her loft, she tells me, “A little while ago. I’m not hungry.”
I nod my reply, even though she doesn’t see me do it, and set out on my task. I pull out the bouquet of flowers I bought first. It only takes me a minute to find her big mason jar, and I fill it with water before unwrapping the stems and setting them in their new home. Pushing the arrangement to the corner for her to discover later, I find her tea kettle—which was conveniently already left on the stove—and boil some water. Less than ten minutes later, I’m carefully climbing the stairs to her loft with a steamy hot toddy.
“What’s that?” Blaine asks as I set the drink down on her nightstand.
She’s laying under the covers, curled up on her side, looking from me to the mug in curiosity.
“Whiskey,” I reply with a smirk, toeing my shoes off of my feet. “Try some. I swear it’ll make you feel better.”
With a frown of disbelief, she pushes herself up to sitting and reaches for the mug. Before she takes her first sip, she mumbles, “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Why wouldn’t I be here? It’s what any self-respectin
g boyfriend would do.”
Her eyes grow wide for a second, and then she peers down into the mug and says, “You shouldn’t see me like this.”
I ignore her comment, watching as she drinks. “How is it?”
“Kind of gross. Kind of good.”
“It’ll get sweeter. There’s extra honey at the bottom.”
She drinks some more as I settle myself beside her, stretching my legs out on top of her blankets. When she looks over at me, I raise an arm, silently inviting her against me. I see it as her shoulders slump in surrender before she turns her back to me and leans into my side. I rest my arm around her hips and she sighs contentedly.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
Neither of us speaks as she consumes her hot toddy, but I don’t mind. It’s a natural kind of silence, and I enjoy being able to bring her as much comfort as I can manage in her current state. Once she’s finished with her drink, she hands me her mug, and I set it on the nightstand beside me. With her hands free, she pulls up one of her extra blankets to her chin and shifts her body until she’s curled up and burrowed into my chest.
“You called yourself my boyfriend,” she says, her voice softer than a whisper.
It takes me a moment to recall. After I do, I kiss the top of her head, speaking into her hair as I recognize, “I guess I did.” The thought crosses my mind to make a joke about it, something snarky about being exclusive—but then I realize that wouldn’t be funny. Not for either of us. Instead, I remain silent, rubbing my hand up and down her side.
“You’re really good at this,” she says, changing the subject.
“Good at what?”
“Making me feel better.”
“Misery loves company, right? My mother always taught me that comfort is the best kind of medicine.”
“Your mother is wise.”
“That, she is.”
Snaking an arm around my waist, she snuggles even closer before she murmurs, “Michael?”
“Yes?”
“You’ll make me fall asleep if you keep touching me like that.”
I smirk down at her, even though she can’t see me do it, and remind her, “You could use the rest.”
She hums sleepily but offers up nothing else. She falls silent for so long, I think that she’s sleeping. Then she surprises me when she asks, “Michael?”
“Hmm?”
“Why don’t you have any children?”
My hand at her side slows to a stop as I gaze down at her. We’ve been getting to know each other for two months now. We’ve been intimate for more than half of that time. I don’t know how it is that her desire for complete honesty between us still has the ability to catch me off guard, but it does. She’s not afraid of the truth. Or, rather, she’s not afraid to face the truth head on. In so many ways, she’s shown me that I’ve underestimated her, and I shouldn’t. In this relationship, all the doors are wide open—it’s merely a matter of when we’ll walk through them.
“Sorry, is that a sore subject?” she asks, giving my waist a weak squeeze. “I just think you’d be good at it. Being a dad, I mean.”
I furrow my brow, regret tugging at my heart. It takes me a second to find my words, but when I do, I don’t hesitate to offer her the answers she seeks.
“Veronica can’t have children. Of course, I believe that with God anything is possible; but the doctors said we’d never conceive, and a decade later, we still haven’t.”
Tilting her head back, she looks up at me as she whispers, “You wanted kids?”
“Yes.”
“And you never explored other options?”
Shaking my head, I confess, “It’s a very delicate subject for Veronica. I won’t claim to fully understand, because it’s not something she ever wishes to discuss. Nonetheless, I know that after we first found out, we talked about adoption and she wasn’t ready.”
“Now?”
“Now, there’s you. Even if she was open to exploring the idea, which she isn’t, we’re clearly not at a place in our relationship to be parents.”
She nods her understanding and then dips her head, resuming her snuggling position. When she doesn’t say anything else, neither do I. Instead, I continue rubbing my hand up and down her side. A few minutes later, when it’s time for me to leave, she’s fast asleep. I carefully ease my way out of her bed, resting her on her pillows. After putting my shoes on, I kiss her forehead and quietly make my exit.
As I head back to the town car, I think about our conversation. It isn’t until I’m reaching for the handle on the back passenger-side door that I realize I didn’t ask her if she wanted children—neither did she offer up the information. I don’t know if she neglected to mention it because she doesn’t want them, or because she does. I pause, looking up the length of her building, taking stock of what I know about the woman I just left. Remembering that I should never underestimate her, I come to the conclusion that whatever her answer may be, she didn’t tell me on purpose. Whatever her answer may be, she didn’t want it juxtaposed against my history with Veronica.
Finally climbing into the backseat of the car, I sigh—in awe of the woman who is taking my heart, one piece at a time.
I’M GETTING READY to leave work when a text comes through. Hesitating at my office door, I slide my phone from my pocket and see that Blaine has sent me a photo message. When I open it, it’s a picture of her smiling eyes—the rest of her face hidden behind the bouquet of flowers I left in her kitchen earlier.
Before I have a chance to black out the screen, another text comes through.
Thank you. You’re the best medicine I’ve ever known. xoxo
I read the message twice, hiding my accomplished grin as I slip the device back into my pocket and take my leave. Clay falls into step behind me as I pass through the reception area, and neither of us speaks a word as we head toward the car. All the way home, I think of Blaine. I play back our short time together, remembering the way she felt as she fell asleep in my arms, her warm body pressed against mine as she lay battling her illness. I think about our conversation, and my thoughts easily drift in an entirely different direction.
She asked me if Veronica and I had ever considered other ways to bring a child into our marriage. It seems like such an obvious solution to her diagnoses; and yet, alternative options have never been obvious for us. For her. Year after year, it’s never felt like the right time. We’ve been waiting and waiting. We’ve been busy. I dropped the topic. It always felt easier that way—easier then getting into yet another argument about timing, and whether or not either of us was ready to let go of the seemingly impossible dream we had clung to in our younger years. We’d hoped for a family, conceived in our marriage bed; a pregnancy that she longed to experience.
“Sir?”
I’m pulled from my thoughts at the sound of Clay’s voice, and I look around to see that we’ve arrived in the garage of the mansion. Still trudging through my thoughts, I nod a silent thank you and then climb out of the vehicle. I immediately make my way to the bedroom, with every intention of changing out of my suit. I’m surprised when I find Veronica busy folding laundry on the bed.
“Oh,” she mutters, looking from me to the clock on the nightstand and then back at me. “I didn’t realize it was so late. I haven’t even started dinner. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home.”
“It’s fine. Dinner can wait. Or we can eat leftovers. Doesn’t matter,” I reply, walking into the room. I take a seat on the bench at the foot of the bed and make quick work of my shoelaces.
“How was your day?”
I sit up straight, toeing the heels of my shoes from off of my feet, my back to my wife as I automatically reply, “It was fine.”
“Just fine? Nothing else?” she asks casually.
Leaning forward slightly, I prop my elbows on my knees.
We talked about adoption, and she was never ready.
I replay my response to Blaine this afternoon one last time before I hear h
er soft voice asking—
Now?
I told her that now there was her; now, Veronica and I weren’t in a place to consider bringing children into our home. However, the longer I think about it, the more I question whether or not that’s true. Now, I find myself questioning if we were ready before I met Blaine? Were we ready last year? Or the year before that? Or has each day led us farther and farther away from being in a healthy place where fostering the hope of a family is a good idea?
“Mike?”
Twisting my head, I speak over my shoulder without looking at her as I inquire, “We’re never having children, are we?”
She gasps softly, causing me to turn and look at her directly. Her lips are parted open in what appears to be surprise, and she seems to be at a loss for words.
“We never talk about it,” I go on to say, wishing to do just that—talk about it. “I’ll be thirty-eight in a few months. You’re not far behind me, and we never discuss it.”
She opens and closes her mouth a couple of times before sealing her lips. She shakes her head, as if to clear her muddled thoughts, and then her brown eyes sharpen as she stares at me purposefully. “This isn’t a matter of a biological clock, Mike.”
“I didn’t say that it was.”
“Then what does our age have to do with it?” she asks, reaching for one of my undershirts.
I watch her as she folds it, her hands showcasing her agitation at my chosen topic of conversation.
“All I’m saying is that we’ve never seriously discussed it.”
“That’s not true,” she snaps, reaching for another shirt. “We have talked about it. I told you, I told you that when I was ready, we would explore our other options.”
Stifling a sigh, I gently remind her, “It’s been years, Veronica. We’re not getting any younger.”
“Well, you’re not getting any less ambitious, are you? I might not be capable of bringing a child into this world, but any child we welcome into this family will be a responsibility that falls heavily on my shoulders. You might be our breadwinner, but my life is still full. And you? First the D.A. office and then governor? You’re gone so often now, I can hardly tell when you’re coming or going, and—”