Page 76 of A Case of You
“I know he’s going to crash himself.” Brandon turned to them. “We have to let him. It’s the only way he’ll listen. If I tell him to stop working now, before he realizes it, he’ll eventually blame me when he feels better. We are his safety net. We will stand there and be ready to catch him and love him when he falls.”
“Pop, I love you,” Grace said, “but you sure?”
“I’m sure.” He’d turned his gaze on Emma. “Just like I couldn’t have forced you to move out of your mom’s house before you were ready.”
Emma’s face pinkened. “Yeah, I get it. I guess.”
“I don’t like it either,” Brandon agreed, “but it’s how we’re approaching this. Making him defensive will only make it worse as he tries to hold out longer. If we love him and let him figure this out on his own, he’ll admit it sooner than if he thinks he needs to prove something. Okay? I’m serious. You three are not allowed to bug him about this.”
It would seem Brandon had been correct.
When he had enough coffee for the men, Stuart fixed their mugs and took them in. Jeff still lay sound asleep, his face looking pinched with pain even now.
Brandon, who was lying with Jeff half sprawled over him, nodded. “Thanks,” he whispered.
Stuart leaned in to kiss Brandon, stroking his hair. “Breakfast?”
“Bring his water and meds in first. I’ll get him moving in a minute.”
“Okay.”
It was apparent by noon that day that Jeff was in massive pain.
But Stuart and Brandon didn’t say anything about that, pretending all was well, even when Stuart saw how Jeff was barely able to climb into the hot tub by himself.
Brandon walked up behind Stuart, where he stood at the kitchen sliders, watching.
He kissed Stuart’s neck. “Let him admit it in his own time.”
Stuart sighed. “I know.” His hands closed over Brandon’s, where the man had wrapped his arms around Stuart. “Doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Me either, but it’s the only way.”
Stuart laid his head back against Brandon’s shoulder as they stood and watched Jeff try to mask his pain.
If only we could get him to admit it.
Chapter Twenty
After Jeff clocked out a little before one that Thursday afternoon, he sat in his truck and struggled not to burst into tears.
Only two weeks and two days into his job, getting technical if you counted from the very first day he started working, and he knew deep in his gut what had to happen, even though he still didn’t want to admit it. Not like he’d been working very strenuously, either. Wasn’t turning wrenches. Got to spend most of his shift sitting, or at least standing still and leaning on a counter.
In air-conditioning.
He hurt.
Everythinghurt.
Even his goddamnedhairhurt.
Not in the fun-time, oh, goodie, someone’s getting their ass caned kind of hurt, either.
This was thebadkind of pain. The bone-deep, teeth-grinding pain he knew meant he’d be in misery later that night, hurting so badly he’d feel nauseous. Hell, he almost was already. He recognized the signs.
Worse, he knew from the brain fog settling in that it wouldn’t simply make driving difficult, it’d make him dangerous on the road, to himself and others. He couldn’t focus, could barely see straight. Not something he could blame on Xanax, either, because he hadn’t been taking those since before Christmas. He still had half a bottle of the damn pills he hadn’t touched since then.
Plus his coordination sucked, another gift of Lyme that kept on giving, neurological symptoms to add to the happy-funtime mix of bullshit he had to deal with. He’d dropped things all morning, making it that much worse when he’d had to lean over to pick them up.
