Page 61 of I Love a Good Challenge

“Lily, honey,” I begin, that word slipping again through my filter. “I need to pick up some things for you. Can you . . .?”

I’m cut off by another faint sound as she shifts to try to get more comfortable. Before I can think any more about it, I text Liam again to ask if he can bring everything here. I’ll transfer money to him later. I tell him to get an extra ice cream for himself. With Lily in this state, there is no way I’m letting her out of my sight right now.

A few hours later, I think I’m wearing an actual hole in Lily’s floor. There is at least some newly evident wear on her area rug. It’s been hours since I first arrived. My t-shirt is wrinkled. I’ve called a local doctor, Sparrow and Rafe, and even put in a call to Gladys. Liam dropped off the items hours ago. God bless him. I hugged him from the relief of finally having something in my hands that may help her feel better.

After giving her a dose of medicine and pain reliever and making her a cup of tea to soothe her throat, Lily fell asleep again. I’ve been waiting for her to wake up. How have I kept myself entertained? I haven’t. Books on her shelves that would normally be enjoyable to read? Lackluster. A whole library of Regency television shows, including multiple seasons of her favorite show, The Man is a Rake? Not today. Anything other than trying not to stare at Lily in an unsettling way while she rests? Unacceptable. The way her face looks like an angel’s while she sleeps? Devastating.

∞∞∞

Eventually, I flip through the pages of a newly released novel. But the quiet atmosphere causes my brain to wander, playing with an idea I’ve had for a while. I end up charting out the path to creating an LLC to provide pro bono or low-cost services in the area for local artists and musicians. When Rafe gets married, he won’t need me quite as much for the next few months. Something about being near Lily makes me think of the future again. I find a notebook on the side table and a pencil with a chunky eraser that says Write Me and get to work. The pencil flies across the pages, and I realize I haven’t created or dreamed like this in ages.

“Graham?”

Her whisper hits me right in my core. I look at Lily, immediately regretting that I was finally so focused on what I was doing that I missed the moment she opened her eyes. My pulse quickens, and I remember one very important truth: Lily only called me by my real name when we were together.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, tossing the items I’ve been using to the floor by my feet.

“Everything hurts,” she admits.

My hands find her feet. They have been nestled under my thigh while she slept (her doing), and I rub them through her fuzzy socks.

“But better,” she adds.

“I’m sorry.” My words are quiet. The sentence feels like a loaded statement, full of everything we’ve yet to say to each other, but I think Lily might be too sick to notice.

She looks toward the table and the box of rosemary crackers precariously hanging near the edge closest to her. “Those are my favorite.”

I nod.

“You got me my favorite crackers?” Lily is all practical, her voice void of emotion.

“I did.”

“You’re taking care of me.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

My hands pause. I look at her, caught up in the way her grey eyes expand their lavender edges as the fairy lights she has hung throughout her apartment illuminate them with hope.

“Because you needed me to.”

I expect her to huff or give me a snarky quip, but she doesn’t reply. After yesterday’s kiss in the wildflower field, I’m not sure where we stand, and while I would love to say that we’re past everything we’ve been through, I don’t know if it’s true. As much as I’ve wanted a different ending to our story, my mind doesn’t let me forget that it’s entirely possible Lily may bolt again. But I’m not a casual guy. I can’t do short term. And with Lily, nothing short of forever will ever be enough.

“I told you that was my dream.” Her eyes suddenly widen with the realization.

“You did.”

“No plus-ones!” she blurts out.

“What do you mean?” With gentle pressure, my hands tighten around her shins in what is hopefully a comforting move. She curls deeper into the couch and stretches more of her legs onto me, so I think it must be.

“No plus-ones,” she repeats.

“Does that mean I lose your game?” My breath hitches. The question hovers in the silent air for a few seconds. What I’m really asking her is if she wants to be here with me. Are we done pretending we’d rather fight than kiss each other whenever we’d like?

Her voice is soft, and her eyes are downcast when she replies, “I think you’ve already more than met anything I could ask of you.”

---