“I’d actually really like a shower,” he said hopefully.
“Shower it is, then.”
I should have known betterthan to agree to a shower—for one thing, keeping him on his feet with the slight fever and a swollen and sprained knee long enough for him to even take his pants off made him break out in a sweat. I’d left him sitting on the toilet seat while I rooted through my meager belongings to find anything that could act as a shower seat, finally giving up before putting a big black garbage bag over the step-stool I used to change light bulbs. It was almost certainly a terrible idea and was definitely not going to be comfortable, but I didn’t think I could both help him wash his hairandhold him upright at the same time.
By the time I got him clean, I was sweating—and so was he—and we were both exhausted. I got him settled on my mattress, propped up by a pile made of every pillow I owned, and then dragged myself into the kitchen to put our food into the oven to re-heat up. I’d put Elliot’s shake in the freezer, and I took that out and brought it to him, along with a spoon.
I leaned heavily on the counter as I made a list of groceries, since while I could make red beans and rice with sweet potatoes and chicken sausage for dinner, since the rice, beans, and potatoes were functionally shelf-stable, and I always had a package or two of sausage in the freezer in case I ended up needing to make dinner for myself. But once I did that, I didn’t really have much of anything else that could be used to make future meals. So I started a list, trying to think of the sorts of things you wanted when you were in pain or didn’t feel well.
Personally, I was a fan of ice cream (cashew milk, of course), chicken fingers, french fries, anything with chocolate and peanut butter (even if it did have to be vegan), and BLTs. If I was reallysick, chicken soup was always nice, or tomato if I could have good garlic bread with it.
I went back into the bedroom to ask Elliot what he wanted, but found him asleep. I leaned against the door frame, bone-tired and aching. I wanted to sleep. I wanted to sink down beside him, hold him against me, and let both of us crash into oblivion.
My stomach growled. I also needed to eat. We probably both did. But I was going to let him sleep for at least a couple hours. I picked up the three-quarters of a shake he hadn’t drunk yet and took it into the kitchen, putting it in the freezer. I took my lunch out of the oven, then turned down the heat to keep Elliot’s food warm without completely overcooking it, although there was probably a limit to how long that would work.
I started a pot of coffee, then sat down and ate at the kitchen table, occasionally thinking of something else to add to the grocery list. I wondered if I had the ingredients for any sort of dessert—cookies or brownies or something like that. I tended to crave sugar when I was in pain, so I was going on the assumption that Elliot would, too.
And if he didn’t, then I would eat it, since my knee, my back, and my elbow were all currently sending far more pain signals to my brain than was normal, which meant I was also craving a lot of sugar.
I had a little flour, salt, peanut butter, cocoa powder, and… sweet potatoes.
If you grow up in the South, you can make almost anything out of sweet potatoes. Pie, fries, mash, biscuits, and brownies. The best thing about sweet potato brownies was that the only thing I had to change in the recipe was getting vegan chocolate chips—and one thing that Noah and I always made sure of was that we had chocolate chips in the house. Mine were a little pricier now, since they were vegan, but I did have them.
I began pulling the ingredients out to set them on the counter, but I’d wait until Elliot ate the rest of his lunch before I could roast the sweet potato I needed for the brownies.
As though thinking of him had summoned him, I heard the sound of a limping shuffle behind me, and I turned, suppressing a wince as I twisted my knee.
“What are you doing out of bed?” I asked him.
“Hungry,” he grumbled. “And I smelled coffee.”
“I can bring you the rest of your lunch. And some coffee,” I told him.
But he shook his head, sitting heavily in the other kitchen chair. “Here’s good.”
I took his food out of the oven and set it in front of him, then turned up the temperature. “You need rest, El.”
“I need food,” he retorted. “And you.”
I couldn’t help the slight smile that tugged at my lips. “You have me, whether you stay in bed or not.”
“And food and coffee are in here.” He picked up his burger and bit into it with a soft sound of pleasure.
I poured him a cup of coffee, black, and set it beside him. “You need to take care of yourself,” I chided, gently.
“I am,” he informed me around a mouthful, waving the burger in his good hand. “I’m eating.”
I wanted to touch him, to run my hands through his still-damp hair, to rub his shoulders, to hold him tightly. But I was too afraid of hurting him to try. “Okay,” I said, instead. “What do you want to eat for the next couple days? I can make dinner, but that’s about it. Unless you think you’ll want to go back to the house tomorrow morning.”
“No.” The answer was immediate and emphatic.
“Okay,” I agreed, mildly. “So what would you like?”
He ate a few more bites of his burger, his brow furrowed. “Sweet and sour chicken. Fried rice.”
“Anything that doesn’t come from a Chinese restaurant?” I was suspicious that he was giving me answers that wouldn’t require me to do extra work.
“Ma’s honey mustard chicken,” he said then, looking a little plaintive.
