Page 35 of Healing You
A look of defiance crossed his face. He didn't believe her. He was used to women playing hard to get. He was a lawyer; he liked the fight. Liked the chase. He took a step in, sliding his hand over hips to her waist.
Wrapping her hand around his, she removed it from her body, only he took the opportunity to link his fingers with hers, mistaking her moment of pushing him away as her desire to hold his hand. Or maybe he wasn't mistaken and he was using the opportunity to take advantage.
“Good night, Jonah,” she said more pointedly, pulling her hand from his grasp.
“Good night, Yvonne. I'll see you around.” He opened the screen door and took off for a jog down her sleepy, dusty road.
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as he was, but she seemed to be looking intensely at Jonah's face. As much as he wanted to tell T he knot in Steve's chest tightened along with his grip on the plastic container of food he held in his hand. He stood a few hundred feet down the road, watching as she stood in the doorway, her ex-fiance's hand on her hip. He couldn't see her too clearly from as far away himself that it didn't mean anything, that pang of pain in his chest was pretty evident to the contrary.
Not that it mattered. He had no claim to her. Even with how amazing the last three weeks had been —their Tuesday mornings had felt more and more like dates to Steve, but as much as they felt that way... they weren't. They were chemo appointments. Appointments she needed to keep to heal her dog.
But even as he told himself this, his feet took him straight toward her front door as Jonah padded away on his run.
The door was shut and somewhere along the way she had tucked herself back inside her house. He knocked on the door. Nothing. No answer. Goddamn it. I know you're in there, Eve...
He knocked again, propping the screen door open with his hip.
“What about 'good night' don't you understand—oh.” Her frustration quickly morphed into surprise.
“Expecting someone else?”
“I—well...” She peeked around the front door down the path where Jonah had taken off running. “Did you get my message?”
“I did. But I was already on my way over here.”
She looked taken aback by that. “You were?” He held out the large Tupperware to her, which she hesitated before taking. “And you brought me dinner?”
“I brought Gatsby dinner. Boiled chicken and sweet potatoes with some pureed kale and tomatoes.” Yvonne popped the lid, giving it a sniff and immediately recoiled. “Well, it's not meant for you,” he responded, noting the way her nose scrunched when she didn't like the smell of something.
She stepped aside, motioning for Steve to come in. The house was so much quieter, and even with Daisy and Ruckus coming him to say hello, there was a stillness about them, too. “How long has he been sick?”
“I don't know. I went for a run and then I was gone all afternoon, taking care of some home visits for adoptions. I found him like this about thirty minutes ago.” Yvonne placed the Tupperware down, motioning to Gatsby's bed in the corner, where he lay in a big golden lump. “I bought him that special food you recommended—the grain free stuff. He'd been eating it just fine until tonight.”
Steve nodded. “Hopefully the chicken and sweet potatoes will spur his appetite. Otherwise, frozen fish are good. They taste okay to dogs but are still mild if their stomachs are upset. They sort of gnaw on them frozen like a bone.”
Yvonne kicked a large bag of dog food sitting in the kitchen. “Damn food costs a fortune. He better like it.”
“It'll be worth it. The more greens and proteins you give him, the better chance we have at starving the cancer cells.” He walked over, kneeling beside Gatsby and put a hand to his belly. The soft rise and fall of his breath was reassuring, but it was never easy to watch an animal suffer. “The medicine we gave him today is a tough drug for a lot of animals. We'll scale back the dosage for next time and I think you'll see a huge improvement.”
“So, it won't be like this every time?”
“Nah, it will probably get easier.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a bottle of pills and a gooey treat, wrapping it around one pill. “In the meantime, this should help the nausea.” Gatsby sniffed the pill and reluctantly took it, almost sensing—trusting—the fact that Steve knew what could help him feel better. Steve set a bowl of the chicken beside him, waiting for the medication to kick in and stir his appetite.
When he stood back up, Yvonne's hazel gaze, the color of seaweed beneath a gray-blue lake, collided with his. “Steve—” Her voice was willowy and soft and as she sat on her couch, her elbows resting on her knees, the shirt she wore billowed out revealing a flash of something black and lacy. Christ. “You were already on your way over before I called... but what made you come?”
She stood, moving with a calculated grace as she stepped closer to him. Their bodies were lined up, hers just in front of his, her full breasts curved beneath the shirt, straining the soft cotton. He'd come because he was an idiot who apparently read far more into the time they'd been spending together than she did. He'd never considered himself a jealous person. Not until Yvonne. But seeing her with Jonah... that man's hands on her, his touch against her hip. It sent pain tearing through Steve's chest. Pain that far outweighed anything he experienced in a physical sense, though it was as real to him as the scar on his face. “I was worried,” he answered with a glance back at Gatsby. The dog sighed and he dipped his nose into the food.
“Look!” Yvonne whispered. “He's eating!”
Relief swept through Steve. Those first few bouts of nausea were always the hardest, and Gatsby seemed to be bouncing back quickly. “I know this round of chemo can be tough the first time, and I thought Gatsby might need me.”
“You thought Gatsby might need you?” Her hands landed on the base of his rib cage and he tried to pull away, but somewhere along the way, he got mixed up and instead he swayed closer, his pecs brushing against her chest.
“I also thought you may need... a friend.”
“Mmm, I already have a lot of friends,” she said, leaning in. Looking down at her misty eyes, she was nearly a different person than she'd been the last few weeks, staring up at him like that. What he needed was to step away. To leave here, go for a run, and afterwards maybe enjoy a stiff drink. Unfortunately, the only stiff thing about him had nothing to do with alcohol.
