He swallows hard, keeping his jaw locked and managing to blink several times without shedding those tears. “You’ve made me feel like a truly awful father. And I know that’s not what you meant to do, but you have. The guilt, Dorothy … you’re fucking killing me with guilt. You’ve turned loving you into a fault. An epic error in judgment. A choice …” He shakes his head and sniffles. “You weren’t supposed to be a choice. Not you. Not Roman. But you’ve laid it all out there. If I choose you, that means I’d have Roman part-time. But that makes me a ‘stupid fucking idiot’ in your eyes. So what’s the point?”
What did I do wrong? How do I excel at always messing things up? I spend so much time planning my moves and my words. I journal them and bounce them off my parents. How did a move that felt so selfless turn me into a monster? The judgmental enemy.
“Just …” I ease my head side to side, grimacing from the pounding inside of it. “Just tell me what you want me to say … what you want me to do.”
He hangs his head, closing his eyes.
I glance back at the door. Eli brought a bag, but who brought Eli? I look at my watch. It’s almost ten o’clock.
What would a neurotypical person do?
I’m not sure. This exact scenario hasn’t played out in the movies or my novels quite this way. I mean … given his complete demeanor, I assume he might want to storm out, get in his car, and squeal his tires.
But he can’t storm anywhere. I’m not sure he can even stand on his own.
No car.
My drive is gravel so no pavement for squealing tires.
That leaves me in uncharted territory with only one question.
What should I do?
Pie.
You can’t go wrong with pie, especially apple pie. I slide the plate from the console and kneel on the floor between Eli’s legs, giving the table his casted leg is on a tiny nudge. He opens his eyes, sharing a lifeless expression.
I think I put that on his face. Another example of my plans not at all going how I imagined they would go. So I fork up a bite of pie and hold it up to his mouth. After a few slow blinks, he takes the bite.
That brings a tiny smile to my face, even if he isn’t finding a single shred of happiness.
Because of me.
I take the next bite. The following bite includes the largest chunk of apple, the best bite of the whole slice. Slowly, I move it toward his mouth, hoping he pays attention to my offering, a peace offering of sorts.
He takes the bite, but his emotionless gaze remains affixed to me. Such a waste. I might as well have taken the bite for myself.
My bite.
His bite.
Mine.
His.
Yep, I take the last bite of crust, the one that’s a little crunchy but sweet with a thin sticky layer of apple filling clinging to it. Something tells me Eli wouldn’t appreciate it as much as I do.
With the pie gone, things get awkward again.
Nothing to say.
Nothing to do.
Yet a crippled man remains in my game room with his overnight bag by the door. And I need a shower. And my meds. And I had planned on working a few things out in my journals. But that’s all gone to Hell with the addition of Eli to my Saturday night. He’s about to quickly find out I have no fucking clue how to be a hostess. I don’t study things I never plan on doing, and inviting people to stay at my house is pretty high on my Unnecessary Skills To Learn List.
“Eli—”
“Shh …” He eases his head side to side. Taking the plate from me, he sets it on the arm of the chair and leans forward enough to slide his hand behind my head and pull me forward. We meet in the middle, a breath from our lips touching. “Just tell me you still think you love me too. Nothing else. Just that.”
I know it’s a mistake to fall in love with Dr. Hawkins. I know he’s bad news. Bad for my heart. Bad for my schedule. Bad for my train of thought.
But I do it anyway.
“I think I love you too … still.”
A barely detectable grin breaks through his pain-etched face just before he kisses me.
Well fuck.
This isn’t part of the plan. I’m supposed to step away. Yes, out of the equation. But he does this thing where he cradles my head in his large hands and kisses me with his demanding lips. For a final goodbye kiss, it feels highly inappropriate. Too much tongue for goodbye. And then I moan. Cries, maybe even whimpers, seem more appropriate for a final kiss.
Not moans.
But I do it anyway.