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He hesitates. “Long story.”
Huh.
“Well, broken bones can affect joints, and your knee is swollen. Need to ice it.” I pull his jeans all the way off. “I think I have one in the freezer.”
He’s hunched over, hands braced on the sofa. Silent.
Without waiting for an answer, I jump to my feet and rush back to the kitchen. To check the pot, I tell myself. That’s the only reason.
The water is boiling, so I throw the pasta in, and I turn off the heat under the sauce pan. I take out dishes, silverware, paper napkins and glasses. Can’t remember the last time I had dinner here with someone.
Have I ever done it? I doubt it. I’ve never been here much, always at practice and rehearsals and—
I put everything down on the counter and bite my lip, my eyes stinging. Looks like I’ll have much more time to enjoy my apartment. To think about my future. Find something else to busy myself with.
But how can I? When this is what I wanted all my life to do?
Clenching my teeth, I grab everything again and march back into the living room, to the dining table, and slam the things down.
And oh crap, I forgot the compress.
Back to the kitchen. I find the compress in the depths of the freezer from a time a few months back when I sprained my ankle. Wrapping it up in a clean kitchen towel, I head back, then remember I must have codeine pills in my cupboard, too, and I made a detour at the bathroom to get them.
Seth is still where I left him, although he’s meanwhile pulled the old T-shirt on, covering his ink.
He gives me a quizzical look. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Perfectly fine.” I force a smile and realize he probably shouldn’t wear the pants yet if he’s going to use the cold compress—and that sitting at the dining table probably isn’t the best idea right now. “Here, use this.” I put the wrapped-up compress on top of his knee, and he hisses softly. “I’ll be right back.”
I drain the pasta, throw it in a bowl, serve the sauce in another and return. He watches me, supporting the compress on his knee with one hand, as I place the food on the low coffee table in front of him, then go grab the rest of the things from the dining table.
“You didn’t have to cook,” he says quietly, and I can’t read his expression.
“It’s nothing much. I hope you like pasta with cheese and mushroom sauce.”
“Oh sure.” His stomach rumbles loudly as I serve the spaghetti onto the plates and ladle the sauce over them. That hint of color rises to his cheeks again, and I catch myself staring.
Again.
“Let’s eat, then,” I tell him, and he flashes me a bright smile. “I’m famished.”
And to be honest, a little bit confused.
***
After a while, I notice he’s not eating all that much. One of the few things I know about guys is that they are like black holes, inhaling every scrap of food on the table, including that on other people’s dishes, so this can’t be normal.
“Not hungry after all?” I ask when he puts down his fork and leans back.
“Nah.” He shifts his leg and grimaces. “Not really.”
“The compress not helping?”
He shakes his head. “I was on my way to get some ibuprofen when we, uh.” He waves a hand. “Met.”
Of course, where’s my head? If he’s still in pain, it’s no wonder he has no appetite.
“Let me get you some painkillers.” I get up to get the pills from the dining table where I left them. “Codeine will help. Ibuprofen won’t do much.”
