Page 16 of Make Me Want it Too

My phone immediately goes in my pocket.

“Hey, Mace.”

“Hi,” she says, walking straight to the kitchen.

Her hair is falling out of the bun on top of her head in little ringlets. It looks like something spilled on her right scrub pant leg. Her eyes are red with puffy little bags and half-drooped lids.

She opens the fridge and sighs.

I saunter over, get a glass and fill it up with water. Nonchalantly.

“Do you need something to eat? I can make you something. You can sit down and take a rest. I know you’ve been on your feet all day.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got it.”

“Of course you do. You’re a strong, intelligent, independent woman. But everybody can use help sometimes and you never—” I sigh and shut my mouth. This isn’t helpful. “Never mind. I’ll leave you to it.” I raise my water glass and head for my room. Resigned to another quiet night.

“Wood, wait.”

I stop, getting a stupid tiny rush at the thought she wants me to stay. I turn around and take a few steps back toward her.

“What were you saying? What do I never?” she asks, the cutest little crease above her nose.

I plop down on a bar stool. “You never take my help. Like…do you not trust my cooking? I’ve made breakfast every day this week and you haven’t eaten any of it.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize.” The crease between her eyebrows deepens. “Have I—have I been hurting your feelings?”

“A little, yeah.” Maybe a lot, I don’t know. I try not to dwell on it.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry. No, it has nothing to do with you or your cooking. It’s me. I like routine and predictability, especially when it comes to eating.”

“Because of your diabetes?”

“Yes. I like to eat the same things at the same time each day whenever I can. It helps me know exactly how much insulin to take, and I know how my levels will last, and when I’ll need to check my sugar and eat again. The routine is what makes it so I don’t have to think too much about it, I can do it on autopilot. Which I need when I have to use a lot of focus and brain power at work.”

“Okay. Got it. That all makes sense. I’m glad we talked.”

The next morning I’m pouring batter into the waffle iron for Livvy, I have eggs scrambling for myself, and a bagel sliced in half and ready to go in the toaster for Noah. And sitting on the end of the island is Macy’s travel mug full of coffee with a two-second pour of vanilla creamer, one banana (the greenest one), one strawberry yogurt, two granola bars—one chocolate chip and one strawberry, and a container of almonds, all packed up in a small, insulated bag.

Macy comes out, hair up, in her teal scrubs. Her eyes aren’t red-rimmed, and I didn’t hear her crying herself to sleep last night. Little victories.

She stops in her tracks when she sees the bag. She looks at me and I give her a nod.

The shiny look returns to her eyes. I’ve been all too familiar with it lately. Tears well up and threaten to spill.

Fuck me. I can’t do anything right by her.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

And then she smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile since she’s been here, and it’s a real, genuine, happy smile. At me.

Saturday night. She’s been here two weeks and finally the crying has stopped. At least, I haven’t heard or seen any in a few days. I hope that means she’s doing better.

I’m lying in bed with the window open, staring at the ceiling, hands behind my head, wondering why the fuck I’m in bed at eleven on a Saturday night instead of out. Normally I’d be on a date or throwing a party or trying to get laid. Maybe that would help.

It’s never helped.

Tomorrow, Macy, Livvy, and Noah are all leaving for the week. They have wedding activities and accommodations leading up to Bex’s wedding next Saturday. I’m only invited to the ceremony and reception, and I already know I’m going to miss them like crazy.

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