Page 32 of Dream Girl

Eddie gasps, looking down at his phone before stumbling over his words. “I have to go! The sale of Jungle Juice is ending in an hour. I’ll talk to you guys later! See you, and I’m happy you’re okay, Milo!”

He’s out the door in less than a second with a nurse trying to follow him to tell him to quiet down, but he’s down the hall already. I’m surprised he hasn’t been banned from the hospital a long time ago from how loud he can be.

Milo slings the gym bag over his shoulder, hand searching for mine and giving me a reassuring grip to bring me out of my thoughts of Eddie stumbling down the stairs just because he’s too impatient to wait for the elevator.

“Let’s go home.”

I nod, a tired smile playing on my lips. It’s been a while since I have had a good night's sleep, and I just want my bed to welcome my tired body with one swoop.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, clicking the elevator button.

I shake my head. The level of my stress has masked everything that my body wants to tell me, and now that the fatigue has been getting to me, I can safely say that it’s time to close my eyes for a whole week.

I haven’t been eating well for the week, and the hunger never lasts very long when I look at the food that Eddie would bring me when I look after Milo. I don’t know if it’s the hospital food or the food itself that makes me nauseated, but I can only stomach water and some crackers to stabilize me.

“I just want to sleep.” I yawn under my hand as the elevator opens after descending us down.

If the heavenly deities have mercy on me, then they are showing it in the most graceful way possible. There was a taxi pulling up after two people have gotten out and into the hospital; the man in the car asks if we need a ride.

It would be impossible for me to walk home without passing out on the streets or have Milo carry me. I can't ask him of that when he’s still healing from his stitches.

The ride is peaceful without many words from the driver as I lean on Milo, closing my eyes for a moment, and we’re in front of the apartment rather quickly.

I never really appreciate the hominess until I step foot inside. I can hear babies with wings and musical instruments welcoming me inside as I sigh in relief. Not once did I let go of Milo’s hand when we make our way to the bathroom.

My upbringing would kick me if I go to bed dirty from a day being outside. Milo has me showering first because I was more tired than he was, and because he wanted to use that time to make something to eat.

The hot water on my body makes me more tired than before, and I just want to drop down on my bed, snuggle into my pillow, and leave the world for a while to submerge into a dream of relaxation.

Before I could do that, Milo stands in the doorway of our bedroom with an expectant look on his face. I barely feel the small hairs on the back of my neck rise with the trickling of the hair bun on my head playing with each other. He tips his chin to have me follow him, and I wordlessly do, but I’m mourning over the loss of my bed.

He made us breakfast, simple and easy. The silence stretches comfortably, easing us into a scene of domesticity as we concentrate on eating breakfast. He must have planned to be sleeping with me after breakfast because of the amount of food. Sleeping with a straining stomach from fullness is not recommended, and he knows that so he hadn’t made much.

The dishes can wait as I take his hand, leading him to our bedroom and sinking into the soft bed. Give me one minute of finding a good position, and I would knock out if Milo’s voice didn’t come close to my ears.

I hum, answering him the best that I can while my eyes are droopy.

“I’m sorry I ruined Christmas.”

Oh, right. Christmas. I forgot about the unopened presents under the tree in our living room. They have been there for a while, but I could care less about them when the love of my life needs me more than I need opening presents.

“It’s okay,” I murmur, curling my body to his and pulling him closer.

He smells good, too good with a faint hint of the shower gel from the hospital bathroom where he had showered. They said something about using a specific gentle cleansing gel to prevent artificial chemicals from starting a bacterial war on his stitches.

“I’m glad you’re alright.” Anything else can be replaced, but Milo is not a product. He is my boyfriend, and I love him so much that it will kill me to know that he won’t be getting better, but that’s not what the doctor said.

It doesn’t matter. My heart is still in the fearful stage, where I could still lose him. I want to sleep, and I want to stay awake at the same time, and I want to make sure that he won’t be gone in the morning because this is a dream and I would wake up with back pain at the hospital.

I have been accustomed to hearing the steady beats of his heart that it’s weird to sleep without it. Using his heart as a comforting defense, I close my eyes and count on the rhythm. Milo throws his arms around me, stroking my spine and pressing his face into my hair.

“I’m sorry,” Milo repeats the apology one more time, a broken breath stumbling into my hair as he sighs.

“I’ll do better—be better for you.”

I murmur into his chest, “I want you to be better for yourself too.”

“I find you to be the strongest motivation.”

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