The test results Hannigan mentioned did indeed come through bright and early the next morning. A respiratory infection, just like the doctor said, though it was quite a hit to learn that I was showing a few pre-Pneumonia symptoms. Apparently, going any longer with that fever could have caused some severe complications.
That little bit of knowledge had set Harper off, launching him into a full-blown interrogation on why I hadn’t called him or asked anyone for help.
But I didn’t seem to mind his grumpiness this time. Not when he followed it up with the surprising act of finding my hairbrush and combing through the tangles of my hair. Then mumbling to himself as he slowly, painstakingly, braided it all to the back the way he’d seen me do once or twice at his house. Not when he’d come to my bedside with pills from the pharmacy and water and a bowl full of the tiny oranges that I loved. Not when I woke up again to find the tissue pile beside my bed all cleaned up and the sound of the washing machine going and the smell of broth cooking on the stove.
No. I was just overreacting earlier, and he was just worried. I didn’t actually mind when Harper was being Gus, because I morethan liked this man being around for me. I appreciated it so much and I felt guilty for being difficult when he was simply trying to take care of me.
Which is why I’d left my bed to be closer to him despite his protests that ‘a few pills and a nap were not enough for me to be up and ready to run a marathon.’ Yeah, he’d gone there, the wise guy.
Still, the only true protest from him when I waddled into my living room to watch him cook was to“sit my ass down”before he quickly brought me a cup of tea and went back to work at his pot.
He’d been mostly quiet since then. Asking me periodically if I needed anything as I dozed in and out of sleep on the couch. So the sudden appearance of him beside my feet as they were propped up on the coffee table was a welcome surprise. His words were a larger, not as welcome one.
“Can I talk to you about something?”
I glanced at the bowl of neatly chopped cucumber slices he set down. When we were at his house I told him I liked to squeeze lime over top of them, and now a few wedges were tucked into the side of the bowl, My half-used bottle of hot sauce set beside it.
I straightened in my seat.
He was being nice. He was always nice, but that, coupled with those words were a dead giveaway. I knew a peace offering when I saw one.
“I thought you said these have no caloric function,” I said cautiously, a spiral of dread curling up into my stomach.
“Yeah.” He nudged the bowl closer. “But you like them and food won’t be ready for a while.”
My swallow hurt less than last night, but it was still pretty rough, my heart seeming to beat faster as I held his eyes. “Yeah, of course we can talk.”
Taking a seat beside me, he picked up my legs off the coffee table and replaced them onto his lap. I was covered with the blanket from mid-waist to ankle, but I could still feel the heat of his handsthrough the fabric as he rested them on me, running his palms absently up and down my shins like he was nervous about something.
It made me nervous too.
“Harper?”
He lifted his head and all at once I wished he hadn’t. The look in his eye looked less playful, less light and more—I don’t know. I truly didn’t know what he was feeling. But whatever it was, I knew it wasn’t right.
“Alta, why did you say that yesterday? About me not liking you unless you were… you know.”
“Um.”Shoot. I knew it. I knew it was the wrong thing to say. I knew something was off with the way he looked at me. I just knew. And now I was stuck, because the one thing I didn’t know was the answer to that question. “I’m not sure. It just came out that way I guess.”
It was a lame answer. One that wasn’t even true. But how could I tell him that I’d said it because I was feeling insecure about his attitude and at the moment it really did feel like he didn’t like me even though he was taking care of me. Not when he was frowning and grumbling and not being himself. It sounded childish even to my ears and the last thing I wanted to be in his eyes was childish or petty.
His silence didn’t do much for my confidence, and I could feel my thoughts and worries begin to spiral. Was he mad at me? Was he done with me? Could he not stand to be around someone who was both so sensitive and selfish?
The questions continued, and between my sickness and my dread, the only thing anchoring me to the room was his strong hands persisting on my leg.
“Can I ask you something?” he said again.
My mouth went dry. How could five measly words sound so intimidating? Especially spoken so controlled and patient.
“Yeah,” I answered.
“Have I changed much since you met me?”
“What?”
“I know what we’ve been doing lately has changed a lot between us, but has the person I am changed in this—I don’t know, almost year, that we’ve known each other? Have I changed to you?” he asked.
I didn’t even need to think about it. No. From the first moment I met him, Harper had been Harper. Says what he wants, does what he wants,iswhat he wants. And takes me as I am.
