Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Keep trying.” Cal fetched two plates from the cabinet near the sink and then turned back to me. “Sorry. That’s mainly what I have. After…after. A lot of people reached out. But that dried up fast, especially when I didn’t reach back. Don’t wait on Worth. And don’t expect talk to help, but give it a go regardless.”
“I’m sorry.” I had to take a deep breath to push past the temptation to make this conversation about Cal. He flinched at my words, a clear sign he wouldn’t welcome sympathy about how much it sucked that he’d been hurting, unable to accept to help, and that those around him either hadn’t seen or hadn’t known how to help. “What about distraction?”
I was asking for Worth because maybe Sam, with his endless stream of G-rated funny memes, was onto something, but I was also asking for Cal. Had Monday been a needed distraction? He was a bottomless well of despair and grief, and if fooling around with me was a distraction he desperately needed, I was more than willing to help. To learn. I might not be what either Worth or Cal needed, but I wanted to be.
“Maybe.” The hint of color along Cal’s cheekbones said he too was thinking about Monday afternoon. “And don’t be surprised if Worth nopes out on this memorial idea.”
“You don’t think Sam has a point about closure?”
“It’s a point.” Cal shrugged, then winced, putting a hand to his neck. “But guys like me…we don’t really do closure.”
He dumped the now al dente broccoli into a dish and added the seasoning I’d set out. I waited him out, catching his gaze as he straightened. The pain in his eyes was unmistakable, and I’d give an awful lot to help him find a way to move past. Not forget, but Cal deserved something resembling peace.
“No closure leaves an open wound,” I said softly.
“Yup.” He gave a curt nod.
“Cal—” I started, but he cut me off, bustling around plating the barbequed chicken sandwiches, potatoes, and vegetables.
“Chicken’s ready. I found these neat-looking rolls in your freezer. Toasted them while the potatoes finished.”
“Thank you.” Helpless to lessen his burdens, I trailed behind him to the table. However, my own pain, physical not mental, got in the way of enjoying the hearty portions he’d dished up. I was still poking at my dinner as he cleaned his plate.
“Food okay?” he asked, glancing over at the stove like he’d have a reckoning with the chicken if it wasn’t to my liking.
“It’s wonderful. It’s my stomach that’s off. I’m just not as hungry as sometimes. Had to take some pain medication before class, and it’s always a complicated calculus of when I need the meds, which med will work best, and finding the smallest dose that won’t bring side effects.”
“That sucks. What hurts?” He cleared the plates, returning to frown at me.
“Everything. Which I know is a vague answer, but that’s the nature of chronic pain. Today, it’s mainly been my lower back, hips, and legs, like always, but also my neck because I slept wonky. Or maybe it’s sympathy pains for your injury? Who knows.” I gestured with my hands, yelping as he touched the back of my neck. “What are you doing?”
“Have you never had a neck rub?” Cal asked like this was the most reasonable question in the world, continuing with his firm massage. “If you get banged up enough on active duty, they send you to physical therapy, and lordy, do those folks love ordering therapeutic massages. Picked up a few tricks.”
He did something with his broad thumb, digging into the worst of my knots and effectively loosening my tense muscles with a few targeted maneuvers.
“I’ll say.” I barely managed to stifle a moan. He was clinical. Precise. Not sexy in the slightest, and I was still so turned on by his casual touch that it was hard to breathe. And then, just as abruptly as he’d started, he was done, floating back to the kitchen.
“Let me handle the dishes, then we can watch the next episode.”
“Hey, you cooked.” I wheeled after him. “There are rules!”
“Which are made to be broken.” He waved me away like he hadn’t been the one to explain to me how nonnegotiable post-dinner chores were. “Go get the show ready.”
Grumbling under my breath, I made my way to the living room and cued up Timber’s hunt for a spouse. I’d just settled on the couch when Cal came in with two small bowls of ice cream.
“Think your stomach can handle some dairy?” he asked as he handed me a bowl. “It’s from that local place y’all rave about.”
“Dessert?” I blinked. Dinner. A neck rub. Dessert. TV. Were we dating, or were we roommates? The lines were getting awfully damn blurry. Tasty. But blurry.
“Hey, it’s your ice cream.” Cal stretched as he sat down next to me, slightly closer than he had the first few episodes. And, of course, I noted the minor shift, my left side seeming to heat from little more than simply his nearness. “I just served it up. Felt like I burned a million calories today doing painting prep.”