“I’d like to be really fucking clear about what’s happening here,” I start, my voice steady because I’m not afraid either. “Cleaning up some blood and bandaging your leg was me helping you. Giving you a ride home was me helping you. Fetching Tylenol and getting you out of your clothes was me helping you. Washing a couple of dishes was me helping you. If you don’t want any more help from me, I’ll do my best to back off,especiallyif it’s something you’ve done alone for the past eight years, but—”
“Nine.”
“What?”
“Michelle died nine years ago,” Jake says. “I just figured that was something you should know, even if it’s not another way we’re alike.”
“Michelle,” I echo. “Don’t think I’ve heard you say her name before.”
“I guess I figured that was something you should know, too.”
“Guess so.”
He smiles. Barely, maybe, but it’s enough. “What else wereyou going to say before I interrupted? You had a nice little speech going.”
I still have a point to make, but Jake doesn’t need to keep standing in his kitchen to hear it, and I let go of him to comb my fingers through my wet hair instead. I’ve got coffee waiting for me on the counter, and we might as well sit down somewhere so I can enjoy it.
“How about I finish my nice little speech on your couch, so you can give your leg a break, and I can drool over your backyard one more time?”
Jake steps to the side and waves me toward the living room, and I don’t worry when he doesn’t escort me from one place to another. There’s a second or two I consider running upstairs to change back into his shorts—the tight jeans that earn me tips at work aren’t the best for relaxing at anyone’s home—but I really don’t think I’ll be here much longer, and maybe something should be uncomfortable enough to remind me of that. Jake joins me after I’ve settled at one end of the couch, grabbing a pillow and lying down with his head at the opposite end and his bare feet in my lap.
The moment is domestic as fuck, but he doesn’t mean it that way, and I ignore it entirely. “You asked if it would be that easy for me to stop wanting to help you, and then I listed a bunch of ways I’ve helped you since last night. But I need you to understand that everything I said in your bedroom—wanting to be the first man who isreallyon his knees for you and wanting whatever comes after that—none of that is about helping you. I’m notdoing you a favor, and it sure as hell isn’t charity.”
“What is it then?” Jake asks.
He’s no more prone to bullshit than I am, and he’s asking because he genuinely wants an answer, but for as much as I’ve already told him, I think I need some time before I respond. I take a long sip of coffee and find a loose thread hanging from the bottom hem of his sweatpants. Then I roll it between my finger and thumb for a while before I look up at him again.
“Tell me about your job.”
If Jake minds the change of subjects, he doesn’t say. “I work in palliative care.”
“But not as a doctor.”
“No, I’m on the administrative side of things, and I have a team of doctors, social workers, nurses, etc. I’m proud of my work, but they do the best of it.”
“And you chose palliative care instead of hospice?”
He shrugs. “I’ve done plenty of that, too.”
I’m close to asking about Michelle—how she died and whether his experience with palliative or hospice care became important nine years ago—but maybe he knows that, and maybe it’s why he keeps talking.
“When I was at the hospital this morning, I had a friend look at everything,” Jake says, rolling his eyes as he gestures up and down his battered body. “Got some antibiotics and a pleasant lecture about the danger of internal injuries and the importance of stitches—and yes, proper concussion protocol—but he expects me to recover just fine.”
I nod slowly and don’t hide my smile behind my mug. “A friend, huh? Guess you’ve got more of those than I thought.”
“Relax. It’s nobody I’d want giving me a ride and taking me to bed.”
“Mmmm, just wait ‘til we do those the other way around,” I tease, my hand wrapped around his ankle now. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about that.”
“I haven’t.”
Jake yawns then, and I admire how vulnerable he is, something more obvious about it in the daylight, even if I’d had my hands all over him in the middle of the night. He needs to rest, and I need to go home, but I tip my head toward the kitchen first.
“Do you want me to grab more Tylenol for you?”
“No,” he chuckles. “Theo gave me something much stronger. I took that before lying down here.”
“Oh, you’re about to be a lot of fun. Bet I could beat you in a round of trivia, too.”