Page 45 of A Box of Wishes
Ryan straightened the sofa cushions and folded the blanket into a neat square. “I’ve finished all your delicious chicken soup and I feel miles better,” he said into the phone. “I’ll be at work tomorrow.”
“Are you sure? You were pretty out of it yesterday. And cute and sleepy this morning.”
“It was a cold, Ben. I don’t think I have Alastair’s bug. Cara says he’s coughing as if he has a three-packs-a-day habit.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Tidying up,” Ryan said. “Just around the flat, in case you’re worrying.” He normally spent a couple of hours in the cafe on Sunday, preparing bread and cakes for the Monday morning rush. “I’ll use what I have in the freezer tomorrow and I’ll close on time.”
“You don’t have to justify your actions. You’re a grown man running your own business. I’m sure you know what you’re about and when to ask for help.”
“Well, I did,” Ryan said, feeling more cheerful. “I really appreciated you coming by. All blue and gorgeous.”
“Blue?”
“The light around you. I told you. Don’t you remember?” Ryan cursed himself for the slip. He knew better than to harp on about his differences. But backtracking would be worse. “It’s part of how I know when people need my kind of help.”
“I remember. What shade of blue?”
“This morning? Blue like your eyes. It’s beautiful.”
“Right.”
Ryan blew out a breath, glad Ben wasn’t making an issue of it. “I feel much better. Slept like a log after you made me breakfast, and your soup tasted just as wonderful warmed up.”
“It’s liquid penicillin, that soup. Nothing warms you up better than hot ginger, chilli, and coriander broth. Nothing.”
“Who taught you to make it?”
“Lady who ran a stall at the food market. She also sold stir-fry and fried chicken skewers, but I went for the soup. Before I moved from Manchester, she gave me the recipe. It’s one of the few things I can cook from scratch.”
Ben’s voice had gone soft with memories, and Ryan wished he could be beside him. “It’s a genuine hug in a mug. If you teach me how to make it, we can add it to the lunch menu at the cafe. Something warm that isn’t hot chocolate, coffee, or tea.”
“I like that idea. But I imagine your dad can make it better than me.”
“Fiddlesticks. You’re the one with the super-secret recipe. You’ll bring Morris tomorrow morning, yes? And don’t ask me if I’m sure. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t.”
“Yes, sir. Of course I’ll bring him, sir.” Ben mock-scraped, and Ryan could hear the smile in his voice. “Haven’t you realised that Morris is my spy? He’s watching over you when I’m not there.”
“You’re a sap.”
“I know. Now get some more sleep. Five o’clock will be here before you know it.”
The line went dead before Ryan could say anything snarky. Ben did that a lot, end a phone call right after he’d made a point, giving Ryan no chance to start an argument. They both had their bossy streaks, wanting to take charge and take care of others. Ryan couldn’t fault Ben for what he’d do in a flash if their roles were reversed.
Ryan reached for the stack of mail Ben had set on a corner of the kitchen counter. He worked his way through the items, mostly junk offers, which ended up in the recycling. Two letters were bills, and one was from his landlord.
A formal notice to terminate his rental agreement.
…. we are in the process of putting the building on the market.
… and your tenancy will end on January 28th.
Please ensure that you have removed all your possessions before that date and the flat is in good order.
Ryan sagged against the wall, knees shaking. The warm, content feeling that had kept him going after talking to Ben had vanished. Now his chest felt tight and his eyes burned as if the fever was making a comeback.
This was a complication he’d not dreamed of in a month of Sundays. Moving house during the busiest time of the year, when he’d had so little warning…
