Page 23 of The Heart We Guard
“Yes, Butcher. Soup. For dinner. Because you got shot. Twice. And then had surgeries on both gunshot wounds. We need to ease your body back into digestion mode, without overloading it with heavy things that take a while to digest. It’s got protein in the form of chicken, and chickpeas to help your immune system fire up to keep infections at bay. And a ton of veggies so all their micronutrients can work their magic on soft tissue. So you’ll eat it and won’t complain.”
He salutes me like an army major. “I can see why you live alone.”
I grab two deep bowls out of the cupboard and place them on the counter. “Yes. So I don’t have to deal with people questioningmy taste in music and my professional judgment in post-surgery nutritional care.”
“Clever answer,” Butcher says.
I serve up two large bowls of soup and carry them to the table, where I already placed a fresh sourdough loaf and butter.
“Go easy on the bread,” I warn.
There’s silence as we both dip our spoons into the steaming soup, then blow gently to cool it. It’s delicious and perfectly seasoned when it hits my tongue.
“Mmm,” I say, quietly to myself.
“This is really good,” Butcher says. “Thank you. For this. For taking care of me. For distracting me with funny banter. All of it. I’m really grateful, Greer.”
A rush of wind whips the rain against the doors that lead out into the yard. “You’re welcome. It’s the perfect day for soup like this.”
He dips his spoon into his soup and blows on another mouthful. I find myself watching his lips as he does.
We’re silent as I cut the bread, but it’s not uncomfortable. The jazz is perfect; so is the choice to not have wine. Not while Butcher’s body is working so hard to fix itself.
“Joking aside,” Butcher says, “is there a boyfriend? Someone special? Don’t want to make things weird for you.”
I shake my head. “No one special.”
“You’re a pretty girl, Greer. Smart. Can make good food. Bet you’d look after someone real good.”
“Woman,” I say. “Not girl. And a lot of people are intimated by being with someone so much smarter than they are.”
Butcher lets out a low, gravelly chuckle. The sound does something squirmy to my insides. “I don’t know. I think the fact you’re smart is part of your charm.”
Being around him so intensively is making me feel things a doctor shouldn’t be feeling for their patient, though I can’t help being intrigued.
I’ve done the whole dating app thing, and I’ve even had sex ranging from mediocre to—well, whatever is a little bit higher than mediocre? Yet, actual attraction doesn’t happen to me. General arousal, occasionally, but never lust for a particular person.
I’ve played around with ways of identifying, and I think asexual works. I mean, I wholeheartedly believe in romance and feeling love for someone else.
But sex?
I just don’t feel like I’m missing out. Not sure I’ve ever felt the urge to tear someone’s clothes off. Ninety percent of the time, I wish they’d just stay dressed.
Rarely have I found anything close to what I’m looking for while sleeping with my exes. I want to connect, because it’s the connection that matters. I want to care about the person deeply as an individual. I have no problem with casual sex, but it’s the emotional part of sex that holds primary appeal for me; without it, the act is just boring mechanics. I want someone to understand me and my brain and that I want some kind of weird mind meld where they can sense what I need.
Which sometimes feels impossible.
I know.
“But back to my original comment, you’re a pretty woman at that.”
“I don’t see it,” I answer honestly. “I always thought my ears were too big.”
Butcher drops his spoon. It hits the surface with a splat, and three fat drops escape the bowl and land on the table. On autopilot, I reach forward, scoop one up with a finger, and put it to my mouth.
“You operated on me on this table,” he says with a wince.
I glance at the surface. “And I put a tarp and sterile sheet on there and have thoroughly disinfected it since.”
