Page 87 of Chemistry: The Chemist

“Chem,” I started, looking into those dark, wondrous eyes.

“What’s up, Choc?”

Anxious limbs wouldn’t keep still. Chem was hardly in a rush to do anything, to go anywhere. But, for once, he was in a hurry.

“What’s the matter?”

“No–”

“Chem.”

“Feels like I’m coming down with something,” he admitted finally, clearing his throat in the process.

It was then that his warmth resonated with me. He was feverish.

“Why aren’t you home? Getting rest. You need it. Your body i–”

“Home is wherever the fuck you are, Choc. Not a place. Not a location. Not a structure. I’m right where I need to be. Just show me to the bed and let a nigga get some sleep.”

“I find it hard to believe you don’t know where my bed is.”

Or the entire layout of my loft. I’m sure you’ve studied the blueprint.

“Smart woman.” He chuckled softly.

The diminishing of his personality scared me. I hated to see him feel anything but joy, happiness, and contentment. Neither of those felt obtainable for him at the moment.

I watched as he shed his clothes, making it into my bedroom in only his briefs. His hands held his head once he landed on the comforter.

Poor baby.

I depleted the distance between us, kneeling in front of him to lift his head. It didn’t belong there. It wasn’t meant to hang.

“Baby, have you eaten?”

A shake of the head was all he could muster.

“Anything in particular you’re in the mood for?”

Another shake of the head followed a deep, throated sigh. His long frame scooted up on the bed. He laid his head on the pillows of doom. He wouldn’t stand a chance on those.

Sleep would lure him quickly and pleasantly. That’s exactly what he needed. I stood, preparing to leave him alone to get some rest. I didn’t make it out of the room before he called out to me.

“Choc,” he said just above a whisper.

“Yes.”

“Come lay with me.”

His vulnerability unearthed me. It was quiet. It was calm. It was gentle. It was generous. It was confirmation I wasn’t the only one feeling all these things.

Chem had come to my home instead of facing the music alone. That meant something to me. To us. For us.

There is no us. I tried reminding myself, but quickly cast those thoughts aside. There was. And in some other lifetime, there would be, again.

I peeled off my clothes, laid them on the chair of my desk, and then climbed into bed. His open arms accepted me, flaws and all.

Against his chest, I laid my head, making it up in my mind that as soon as he was asleep, I’d start to make him a healthy broth to kick-start his healing process.

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