Page 37 of Desperate Haste

“Wait.” I furrow my brows and will myself to turn just enough so I could look up at him fully. “You’re reading frommybookshelf?”

“Yeah? Is that a problem?”

“All I have are romance novels. You’ve been out here reading steamy romance books while I was sleeping?” He chuckles and bends over to place a kiss on my forehead. I wish he’d stop doing that.

“I’ve been out herelearningfrom your steamy romance books. Some of these have good stuff in them, maybe if you’re lucky I’ll try some of it out on you.” He gives me a wink and if I had any energy at all I would have slapped his knee. Leave it to him to bring up sex at a time like this.

“Don’t take this personally, but the thought of doing anything other than this right now makes me wanna puke. It’s not you, it’s me,” I attempt to be coy and give him a smirk but I’m pretty sure it comes off more as a grimace. He laughs again and slips a hand under the comforter I have wrapped around me and starts to rub my back.

“How do you feel?”

My eyes flutter shut again and my breath starts to match the rhythm of his hand. “I feel like I don’t think I could throw up again even if I wanted to.”

“Well that’s good. Do you wanna try any food? I got some soup from the store and some bread. Bland things to hopefully soak up whatever is causing you issues.” The sound of real food causes a visceral reaction and I try not to gag.

“Okay, maybe not,” he says again with a soft laugh.

“I think I just want to lay here for a little bit.” I sigh, nestling into his leg. He moves so that he’s closer and my head is tucked safely into the bend where his leg meets his hip. “Tell me something.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“I don’t care. Anything not food. Anything that will distract me from how much I feel like a piece of shit that someone lit on fire and then ran over.”

“That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?” he sniggers in my direction.

I pinch his leg causing him to cry out and flinch. “You need to be nice to me, I’m sick and probably dying,” I joke.

“You aren’t dying, I wouldn’t let that happen,” he says, grabbing my hand and kissing the back of it.

“Okay, you asked me to tell you something. Let’s see. You know about my friends already so behind them, I guess the next best thing I could tell you about is Marshall.”

“You mentioned him when we got sandwiches. He’s your sponsor?”

“He was—is. Now he’s more of a mentor than anything else. He’s…” his voice trails off and I get the sense that he’s trying to find the right words.

“He’s important to you,” I finish.

“Yeah. He’s the most important person in my life. He watched out for me as I was getting sober and helped me stay clean for the last five years. He would take me to N.A. meetings, got me started at the bar, and connected me with the training center I workout at. He gave me a purpose, a direction, after I nearly imploded my life. I wouldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for him.”

“He sounds really great.” Without thinking about it, my hand reaches around myself and grabs at his hand which is still rubbing my back. Pulling it forward, I loop his arm under mine so his hand is resting on my stomach as I hold it in mine. Feeling him wrapped around me brings me a sense of comfort I haven’t felt in years.

“Heisreally great and a major pain in my ass.” He barks out a laugh that’s so contagious I laugh with him. “He busts my balls more than anyone and isn’t afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”

“Hmph, sounds like me,” I say.

“I’ve thought on more than a few occasions how I think you two would get along well.”

“Maybe one day I can meet him,” I say before thinking about what that might mean for us. Do you meet your fuck buddy’s sponsor?

“I think he’d like that. I know I would,” he replies, squeezing my hand a little tighter.

I take a deep breath and push myself up from his lap, the constant wave of nausea dissipating enough to where sitting straight up doesn’t make me double over. “I think I want to try some crackers. Get something in my stomach now while it feels safe.”

“Here, let me.” He stands from the couch and walks into the open kitchen. I pull my legs under me to sit cross-legged on the couch and wrap my blanket closer around my body. As I watch him grab a fresh plate and dump some saltines onto it that he definitely bought for me because I know I didn’t own any before today, I start to wonder if this is what all the fuss is about with relationships. The knowing that even on your hardest days, someone will be there to sit next to you while you throw up or make you a plate of crackers just because they want you to feel better.

Walking back over to the couch, he hands me the plate before sitting down next to me. I take a small bite of one and chew slowly, breathing in and out of my nose and internally praying I don’t feel the sudden need to puke again.

“Tell me something,” he says, leaning against the arm of the couch and propping his head up with his hand. I look up from my plate of crackers and my heart melts because of how he’s looking at me. His dark hair is shaggy and falling around his square face, almost matching the black, rectangle frames around his eyes. The arm holding his head up is flexed and his bicep is stretching the sleeve of his T-shirt. A lazy half smile spreads across his face as the tattoos on his neck, arms, and hands hold untold stories.

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