Page 90 of Make Mine Sweet
Mom: Let us know if you need help tonight.
Mom: We’re here for you.
Guilt worms through my stomach. I didn’t share the whole truth when I told them August was sick. I entirely left out the part about him being at home with Ian when it happened. Wren would get my reasoning, but Mom won’t. I’ll explain it someday, just not right now.
I text them updates on August’s health and reassurances that I’ll call if I need them. I know they’re thinking about when he was first diagnosed and we had a few scary visits to the hospital. In that light, his stomach bug today isn’t so bad. Hopefully, I won’t even have to use any more emergency medications.
Hear that, Universe? Give us a softball this time.
Ian returns a few minutes later, movies in hand. He’s slicked his wet hair into his ever present bun and changed into a fresh T-shirt and athletic shorts.
I like the clothing swap. Gray sweatpants might do it for some women, but I’m a shorts girl all the way. Not just because I like the hint of his exposed thigh. He’s comfortable enough to wear them around me, and I don’t take that lightly.
“You brought a lot of movies. Am I going to have to cover my eyes during the shoot-em-up parts?”
“I don’t think so.” Standing in front of the couch, he fans the movies out in his hands.
Twins. Kindergarten Cop. Junior. No action movies to be seen.
I point at the last one. “Um…is he pregnant in that one?”
“He’s glowing.” Ian smirks. “You’re distracted already. My plan is working.”
And honestly, it is. Ian and I get comfortable on the couch and watch silly comedies. We take breaks to check August’s blood sugar and help him drink fluids. Ian orders us meals from a soup-and-salad place in town, and August manages some bites of dinner. Sick days are never routine, but this is the best one I could hope for.
It’s almost midnight when we finish our movie marathon.
“I can’t believe I cried over an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie. Stupid message about family loving you no matter what.” Hit a little too close to home.
Ian chuckles. “He can do anything.”
I yawn wide and check my phone alarm. I’ll be doing blood sugar checks every few hours until August is totally well, which could be days. I probably shouldn’t have stayed up this late, but Ian was right. Schwarzenegger kicked my anxiety’s butt. Now, exhaustion is kicking mine.
“I should go so you can get some decent sleep.” Ian stands and holds a hand out to me, helping me up. Our hands stay locked together as I walk him to the door.
“Thank you for tonight.” Those few words feel awfully small in light of everything he’s done for us.
“You don’t have to keep thanking me, angel. I wanted to be here.”
The soft lamp light makes his eyes sparkle like a rushing river. We stay like this, holding hands in front of the door, neither of us letting go. I’m waiting for him to do something—kiss me, hopefully—but I begin to realize that ball’s in my court. He’s letting me set the pace.
It’s sweet. And way too much pressure.
His motto might be “What’s life without a little risk?”, but mine is “Caution.” I don’t know how to make the next move. I’m so far out of practice, it’s laughable. We could wind up in this standoff until morning.
I’m tempted to tell him I haven’t dated since before August was born. Admit I don’t know what I’m doing. Throw the ball back in his court and let him decide our fates.
But is that really who I want to be? A woman who can’t lean one foot closer to kiss the man she’s crazy about?
In a flurry of nerves and adrenaline, I rush forward to press a kiss to his cheek. Not the bullseye, but it counts.Even if this sort of kiss gives him no chance to participate. His skin is warm, and I catch that soft cucumber scent I’ve been smelling all night. If I pressed my nose against his neck, it’d probably be even stronger.
That would be too much, right? Or would it…
But I lean back, my cheeks heating from even that brief kiss. It’s a baby step, but it’s in the right direction.
He holds my gaze, even though I’m tempted to tear mine away. It’s like he can see straight through my eyes to every one of those thoughts.
“I should bring you dinner more often,” he says with a smirk. He squeezes my hand once, a Morse code message I don’t have the decoder for. “Goodnight, Tess.”
