Page 85 of Boyfriend
“Yes. I will, sir.”
And then we’re back to Drink this, Abbi, and Swallow this pill. But I just want to sleep for a week.
Finally, I wake up again, and there’s sunshine streaming in the window. That means it’s late afternoon. It’s quiet, too. Weston isn’t sitting on the bed anymore, or fussing over me.
I roll over and groan into the silence.
“Oh, you’re awake,” says a strange voice.
“What the…” I sit up suddenly and the room spins.
“Easy,” says a floppy-haired blond guy. He gets up from my sofa and approaches me slowly, on a set of crutches.
I squint, because he looks familiar. “You’re a hockey player,” I mumble. “What are you doing in my apartment?”
“Well, Weston had to go to practice. It’s the playoffs, you know. But I couldn’t go.” He points to a cast on his leg. “So I’m here to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I slur, falling back onto the pillow. “You can go.”
“No way. I’m on duty.”
“What?” My throat is sandpaper, and nothing makes sense. “What are you talking about?”
“Weston sent me to make sure you're okay. I'm supposed to message him every half hour. If I’m late, even by a minute, he blows up my phone.”
“Um…” I try to swallow. “And how long have you been doing that?”
“Since noon.”
“And it’s…?” Please say twelve thirty.
“Four p.m.”
“You've been watching me sleep?” I squeak. “I don’t even know you. That's creepy.”
“Nah, I’m Weston’s teammate. Cooper. So you and I are already buds,” he says, crutching past me on the way to my kitchen, opening my cabinet and locating the glasses on the first try. "You sound like you need a drink." He opens the fridge. "Ginger ale, fresh squeezed orange juice, Gatorade, or water?"
"What? I don't have any of those things."
He opens the door wider and shows me a full complement of beverages, plus a plethora of unfamiliar food items. "Weston stocked you up. After you have something to drink, you'll have your choice of soups, along with toast if you're feeling up to it."
I blink.
“So what will it be?”
I'm so confused right now. “I’d love some juice, I guess.” But how is he going to carry it over here ? I start to get up but he grabs the juice bottle, shoves it into the big front pocket of his hoodie and closes the refrigerator before coming back to me.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it from him. But then I can't get it open. My hands feel weak and ineffective as I tug at the lid. And I have the sudden urge to cry.
My unlikely caretaker sits down heavily at the edge of the bed, grabs the juice, and has it open with a quick turn of his wrist.
“Thank you,” I squeak. Then I take a sip, and it's cold, sweet nirvana. Seriously, it’s a miracle. Like I've never tasted juice before. I'm starved for it.
“There you go,” he says. Then he pulls a phone out of a pocket of his shorts and points it at me.
“Whoa!” I shield my face with one arm while the other holds my precious bottle of juice. “Do not take my picture.”
“But it's proof of life!” he insists, and I hear the shutter noise. “Maybe Weston will calm down if he sees you’re conscious. Seriously, that guy was freaked that you were sick.”
