Page 34 of The Sweet Spot
“I’m still standing,” he says.
Right now, he’s acting a bit hung over. I assume it’s because of the sedative.
“Granny and I had pot roast for dinner this evening,” she says. “There’s plenty of leftovers in the fridge. Enough for the both of you. There are some dinner rolls, too. Help yourselves.”
As I watch Chris drop down heavily onto one of the kitchen chairs, I suspect he’s hurting more than he’s letting on. I pat his good shoulder. “How about something cold to drink?”
Wordlessly, he nods.
“Is Granny in bed?” I ask Dawn as I hand Chris a glass of fresh-squeezed lemonade. It’s eight now. Granny’s usually in bed by seven.
She nods. “Sound asleep. She asked for you at dinner. I told her you were working late tonight.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Dawn.” I give her a hug as I walk her to the door.
“Oh, I forgot! There’s blueberry cobbler on the counter.”
I lock the door after Dawn leaves, and then I turn back to face the patient. “I’ll get you some dinner.”
Chris sits at the table nursing his lemonade while I heat up the leftover pot roast in the microwave. As that’s warming, I set a basket of dinner rolls and the butter dish on the table. I keep myself busy until the microwave beeps, indicating our food is ready. I dish it out and set the plates on the table, along with silverware and a glass of lemonade for myself.
“Dig in,” I say. “You must be hungry. You probably haven’t eaten since breakfast.”
He scoops a forkful of food in his mouth and grunts as he chews. “It’s good,” he says after he swallows.
“Would you like something for the pain?”
“I’m fine. Just sore.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” I hate pestering him, but it bothers me that he’s hurting and I can’t do anything about it.
He manages a few more bites and half a roll, but he mostly pokes at his food. Usually, he’s a good eater, but I’m afraid he’s preoccupied with something.
Of course I can’t help thinking he must remember what he said to me at the hospital. He’s probably embarrassed, or maybe he regrets saying anything at all.
My phone chimes with an incoming message. I glance at the screen. “It’s Micah.”
Micah: Checking to see you two got home okay
Micah: Send proof of life
“He’s checking to make sure you made it here all right.” I take a picture of a sullen-looking Chris spooning some of the pot roast into his mouth and send it to Micah. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
Micah: He looks like shit. Tell him I’ll bring more clothes in the morning
I bite back a chuckle as I pass along the message.
“You guys don’t need to fuss over me,” Chris says, frowning.
“No, but you’re our friend, and we care about you.”
Chris reaches for his glass and downs the rest of his lemonade. “Thanks for dinner. It’s been a long day, and I think I’ll turn in.”
“Dawn made a blueberry cobbler. Would you like some?” This guylovescobbler.
He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good.”
I’ve never known Chris to turn down cobbler, so something is definitely wrong. But I don’t want to push him because I’m pretty sure I already know what it is. He remembers what he said, or at least some of it, and he regrets it. And that makes me sad.
