Page 39 of Heart Me Up
Finally he said, “You must be the boyfriend. I’m Malcolm.”
“Oh!” Right, Foster’s best friend. Undercover assignment. Mariposa’s owner. “Um, Foster told me you’d been, um, away. Does he know you’re here?” Needing something to do with my hands, I stooped and picked Mariposa up, cradling her in my arms on her back like a baby. She kneaded her paws in the air.
Malcolm quirked an eyebrow at his cat. “She likes you. And yes, I texted Foster when I arrived. It was kind of a surprise; I wasn’t sure when I’d get out of the hospital.” He rapped his knuckles on his cast like his injury was no big deal.
I walked into the living room and sat in the recliner catty-corner to the couch. It was much more comfortable than the sofa, I noted absently. I stared at Malcolm’s leg.
“What happened? Foster’s been concerned about you. He said your assignment wasn’t supposed to last as long as it did.” I caught myself. “Oh, shit! Sorry! I’m Craig.” I kind of wiggled my fingers at him through Mariposa’s fur, since holding a twenty-pound cat requires both hands.
“Nice to meet you.” Malcolm rubbed the top of his leg above the edge of the cast. He seemed to realize what he was doing, and he stopped and jerked his hand back across his chest. “Yeah, um, it went a bit longer than expected. It’s all good though. We got the bad guys in the end, so it was worth it.” His eyes were on his leg, not on me.
“How long were you in the hospital?” Because Foster would have said something if he’d heard Malcolm was hurt. And he would definitely have picked Malcolm up when he got released. Had Malcolm taken a fucking Uber to Foster’s house?
“Not long.” He didn’t seem inclined to say more. Okay then.
“Um, can I get you some water or anything? Are you in pain?”
“Naw. I’ve got some pain pills for tonight, but I’m trying not to take them all the time.” I frowned doubtfully. I’d never met him before, but I was willing to bet his complexion wasn’t normally so gray.
“Okay.” I checked my watch. “Oh, shit. It’s time for Mariposa’s insulin.” I stood, hefting her over one shoulder to take her to the kitchen.
“Herwhat?”
“Her insulin.” Uh oh. “Um, didn’t Foster tell you? He said she was diagnosed as diabetic a few months ago.” Malcolm looked horrified and gutted at the same time. Shit, Fosterhadn’ttold him. Though I supposed if you were undercover you couldn’t really risk phone calls to check on your cat. “I’m so sorry. I assumed you knew.“ He shook his head. His lips pressed together, and he stared down at his leg again. “Um, Foster didn’t tell me what type of diabetes she has, but if it’s Type 2, sometimes losing weight can make the diabetes go into remission and she wouldn’t need the insulin anymore.”
He still seemed upset, so I said, “Here.” I shifted Mariposa again and handed her to him. “Why don’t you hold her while I get her dinner ready? Afterwards I can show you how to give her the insulin if you like.” He nodded, cuddling the cat close and pressing his face into her fur. Fuck, I felt awful for him.
I found the cat food, a weight-loss formula, so hopefully Mariposa did have Type 2. I dumped it onto a plate and added some water even though her water bowl was full. Diabetes could trigger excessive thirst. I put the plate on the floor and opened the fridge to grab the insulin.
Time to get the cat. I went back into the living room a little hesitantly. Malcolm seemed to have gained control over his emotions. His face was stony, but his hand was soft on Mariposa’s back as she stretched out on his cast. “Wow, doesn’t that hurt your leg? She’s a pretty big cat.”
Malcolm shrugged. “The cast is pretty sturdy.”
“Okay. Um, her food’s ready. Do you want to watch me give her the insulin?” He nodded, lifting Mariposa off his leg to hand her to me. He fished under the couch and produced a pair of crutches. As he pulled them out, my eye caught on a duffel bag on the floor nearby.
Wait a minute. “Where are you staying?”
He scowled. “Here. Why? Will I cramp your style while you and Foster go at it like bunnies?”
I bristled but forced myself to relax.He’s in pain, I reminded myself.He’s in pain and he’s lashing out. It wasn’t personal. I turned and walked toward the kitchen with Mariposa.
“I meant, where are you sleeping? It’s got to be awkward carrying your bag with those crutches. I can move it to your room for you.” I glanced back to see him cock his head at me.
“The bedrooms are on the second floor,” he told me. Theyou idiotwas unsaid but heavily implied.
I decided not to mention that I hadn’t exactly explored the entire house. I was self-conscious about telling Malcolm theboyfriendlabel he’d given me before was a little premature.
Finally the problem with the bedrooms being upstairs hit me. No way he’d get up there with a full leg cast. “Holy shit, are you planning on sleeping on that couch? With a broken leg?” Heck, I hadn’t liked sitting on it with all my limbs intact and uninjured.
“I’ll be fine,” he said gruffly. “Just show me the damn insulin.” So I did. But the entire time I fretted over Malcolm sleeping on Foster’s uncomfortable couch.
My parents had cut me out of their lives my senior year in college when I’d told them I was gay, but Greg’s family hadn’t hesitated to adopt me like I was one of the strays in the rescue program they operated. I could almost hear Greg’s mom and dad whispering in my ears, telling me the right thing to do would be to invite Malcolm to stay in my spare bedroom. In my one-story house. The fact that he was a complete stranger, not to mention kind of a dick, wouldn’t matter to them.
If Malcolm would even go for it. I was a complete stranger to him too.
I wrestled with whether to make the offer the entire time I was showing Malcolm how to administer Mariposa’s insulin. But I knew I was going to do it. I just didn’t want to.
I sighed in resignation as I watched Malcolm crutch his way back into the living room and carefully sit down on the couch. Was that a tiny wince at how uncomfortable the fucking thing was? Next he lifted his broken leg with both hands and stretched it out along the cushions. If you could call things that hard “cushions”.
