Page 95 of The Last Guy On Earth
I do it. But I also roll toward him and park my head on his strong chest the way I’ve always wanted to.
He lets me. He wraps an arm around me and rubs the achiest part of my shoulder.
“Sorry I’m such a wreck tonight.”
He sweeps the hair off my forehead. “Honestly, it makes me feel better to know that you can be a fuckup. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
I try to think up something witty to say in reply. But I just fall asleep instead.
Sunlight blazes in my face. I wake up with a start, and then groan as my head gives an unhappy throb. I have no idea what time it is, but I can hear my phone alarm going off somewhere in the house.
I’m alone in bed, like always. But an image of Jethro leaning over me in the dark swims into my mind.
That really happened, right? I rub my temples. It seems improbable that Jethro came over last night and put me to bed with kisses. But the glass of water he brought me has been refilled. And the bedroom door is closed. I never do that.
I gulp down the water. Then I stagger downstairs, wondering how big a wreck my kitchen will be. I’m pretty sure I trashed the place last night making lasagna.
I stop dead at the bottom of the stairs. The kitchen is sparkling clean. Every dish has been washed, and the counter gleams. My phone is on the charger.
Oh Jethro.
There’s a note, too, on a Post-it.
You don’t owe me anything, but I wouldn’t say no to one of those lasagnas in your freezer.
I start the coffee and sit down on a barstool, listening to the silence of my apartment
FORTY-ONE
Jethro
We winthe first two games against Seattle at home with Volkov in the net.
I celebrate by baking up the lasagnas that Clay left on our doorstep after that weird night when he got drunk. There was a sealed envelope inside the bag, with a note addressed to me:
J—
Yikes, right? When I make a mess, I make it big.
Thank you for sorting me out. That was totally above and beyond.
I appreciate you more than you can know.
C
I guess we’re even now, because I seem to remember showing up at his door feeling particularly messy a couple months ago.
Although Clay has begun avoiding me at the rink again. Maybe he’s embarrassed.
Or maybe he’s just very busy trying to win a championship, and I’m a whiny little bitch.
But at least I have lasagna for dinner.
“Where did this food come from?” my father asks as I’m serving it onto plates.
“It’s from my secret gay lover.” I hand him a plate.
“Hey.” He gives me a sour look. “You’re the one making it weird now. I haven’t made a single comment. Why do you have to keep bringing it up?”
