Page 141 of The Overtime Kiss

“I know. I just really don’t like it,” I say, and he seems to sense I’m not whining. I’m actually admitting something hard.

He takes a step closer to me. “Because you’re afraid of not being perfect.”

It’s said gently, like a soft gust of wind through a window that flutters open the pages of a book, revealing a twist in the story you didn’t see coming. The twist is that he’s figured me out. The thing I usually try to hide behind doing too much, being everything, trying hard.

“Maybe,” I say softly, crossing my arms over my chest, like I’m hugging myself. “Probably.”

Tyler looks like he wants to reach for me, to wrap me in his arms, and I wouldn’t object. But instead he says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be the super nanny. You don’t have to be super Sabrina. It’s okay to be you. And I really wanted to be there for you. To take care of you.”

My throat tightens so hard, so uncomfortably, I can feel tears building in the back of my eyes. I fight them off. “Well, thank you,” I say. Then I say one more hard thing. “I guess I’m not used to it.”

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say Chad never took care of you?” Tyler doesn’t sound bitter or angry at him—just matter of fact, like he knows that’s what Chad would’ve been like.

“He’s not really a caretaker.”

“And I’m guessing your parents weren’t either?”

A mirthless laugh falls from my lips. “You’d be right.”

“I’m glad it was me last night then,” he says, “because I’m not like that.”

I wince, but it’s not because what he said was painful. It’s because the past still aches. The way I grew up still hurts. Because the armor I had to wear doesn’t always shield you when you’re sick, when you’re vulnerable, when you can’t do everything. But it’s hard to linger in this conversation. “What about you? Are you worried about getting sick? Or are you an ox?”

He flexes a big arm. “Ox, baby, ox.”

It’s like he knew I needed a little teasing to break up the serious moment, but my mind latches onto that word again—baby. The way he says it so easily, the way he’s saying it…again. I hang on to the sweetness of his tone too.

I still don’t know what’s happening between us. But maybe that’s okay. “Well, Mister Ox. Where’s the little Drama queen?”

“Shockingly, she’s sound asleep. In your apartment,” he says, then he adds, “I hope you didn’t mind me going downstairs to your place and getting some things.”

That raises a good point. “How did you get in there? I don’t mind but I’m curious.”

“You gave me the code. In the middle of the night. I asked if I could get some things for you.”

I laugh. “I don’t remember that at all.”

“You were pretty sleepy. You’re cute when you’re sleepy. And you’re cute when you’re sick.”

I growl, wiggling a finger his way. “Now that’s taking it too far, you ox.”

He holds up his hands in surrender, then gestures toward the counter where he’s taken out a cutting board, and left some bagels and avocado. “Can I make you a bagel?”

I set a hand on my belly, and it’s rumbling. “You know, I think I am hungry. But let’s pretend you never said avocado.”

“I never said avocado.”

He slices the bagel and toasts it. And I take this care-taking for what it is.

Care.

Care given freely. Without expectation of performance. Without the requirement of excellence. It’s just care, and maybe I don’t have to figure out what this thing between us is all the time. Maybe I can simply accept it as something new and lovely in my life.

And I like new and lovely a lot.

When I’m halfway done with the bagel, he clears his throat. “Sabrina,” he says, and he sounds serious.

I tense. A Pavlovian reaction. Something tough is coming.

---