The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(52)

After a small eternity, we arrive on the fourth floor. Ethan precedes me down the hall and unlocks my door—he’s had a key since I moved in. Ash pokes her head out.

“Hey! You okay?” she asks. She looks shockingly young without her black makeup. “I waited up to see you.”

“I’m fine, honey. Allergic reaction. Lots of puking.”

“Hi, Ash,” Ethan says, smiling at her. She blushes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say.

“Okay,” she says. “Feel better. Night, Ethan.”

“Good night, kiddo,” he says. He opens my door, then steps aside as Fat Mikey greets us.

“Are you hungry?” Ethan asks, following me in. He goes into the kitchen and opens the door to the fridge to assess the contents.

“No,” I say. Fat Mikey rubs himself against my calf and gives a rusty meow. I bend over and pick him up, grunting at the effort of it, and rub my cheek against his. He gives me a fond head butt and pricks his claws into my shoulder and as ever, I’m grateful for his curmudgeonly affection.

Ethan walks down the hall to my bedroom, opens the door as if to check something—I haven’t made my bed today, since I usually save that task for after my nap, and today—an eternity ago—was the amazing recovery of Aunt Boggy. My head buzzes from fatigue and whatever leftover drug is still in my system. I close my eyes, ready to fall asleep right here.

“You want to wash up, then, Lucy?” Ethan asks. Opening my eyes, I see that his arms are folded over his chest, the fabric of his shirt taut at his biceps. I’ve known him long enough to see that he’s itchy to be done with me. Can’t say that I blame him.

“Good idea,” I answer, setting my cat down.

The bathroom mirror reveals that I look about as you’d expect a woman to look after she’s been hallucinating and vomiting all night…that is to say, not my best. My face is pale, my hair matted on one side and my mascara is just a messy smudge under my eyes. Trashy pop star after a bender. With a sigh, I turn on the shower, pull off my clothes and get in.

When I’m done, I smell a lot better, but I’m so tired I can barely stand. I pull on the pjs that hang on the back of the door and brush my teeth.

As soon as I open the door, Ethan gets up from the couch, where Fat Mikey has him pinned, and comes down the hall. “I changed your sheets,” he says, “and I left a glass of water on the night table there. I’ll have to wake you up a couple times, make sure you’re all right. Okay?”

“Okay.” He’ll be sleeping on the couch, of course. Or in the guest room. The truth is, I wouldn’t mind him sleeping with me, arms around me, warm and reassuring, but I’m not so out of it that I actually request this.

He watches me climb into bed, not smiling, not even when Fat Mikey jumps up next to me and starts his kneading ritual, something that used to make Ethan laugh. Back when we were sleeping together, that is.

“Anything else you need, Lucy?” he asks.

“I’m sorry you had to take care of me tonight, Ethan,” I say, swallowing hard. I try to keep my voice casual, but my eyes sting with the warning of tears.

“It’s no problem.”

“It sure seems to be.” I pause. “Ethan, aren’t we friends anymore?”

Ethan opens his mouth to say something, then reconsiders and looks down, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Lucy,” he says, and his voice is tired, “I don’t know what you expect from me. You tell me you’re ready to move on, but you leave treats outside my door. You ask me to hang out and watch movies. You warn me away from Doral-Anne—”

“She’s so mean, Ethan!”

“—and all the while, you’re scraping the bottom of the barrel of the dating world right in front of me. And now you’re on medication for panic attacks and you wind up in the hospital.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I just don’t know what you’re trying to do, Lucy.”

I scratch Fat Mikey’s head so I won’t have to look at Ethan, who stands next to my bed like a disappointed parent. “I’m just…trying to put a life together, Ethan. The kind of life I can handle.” I swallow, then swallow again.

“What does that mean, a life you can handle?” His voice is soft.

“I don’t know.” It comes out as a whisper. A tear plops onto Fat Mikey’s ragged ear, and he shakes his big head in response.

Ethan sighs. A second later, the bed sags under his weight as he sits. “You must be whipped,” he says. I nod, still not looking at him.

“Go to sleep, then, honey,” he says, and I obey, closing my eyes so I won’t have to see his face. He pulls up the covers to my chin and leans over to turn off the light. Then he kisses my forehead, just the gentle scrape of his beard and the soft press of his lips. “I’ll be in to check on you in a couple hours,” he says quietly. And with that, he stands up and walks out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Which is good, because another second, and I’d have begged him to stay.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHEN I WAKE IN THE MORNING, I know immediately something’s wrong. Squinting, I sit up. My head is a little achy, but other than that, no apparent residue from my Michael Phelps flip-out.

Wait a sec…I’m squinting. It’s sunny. Which means it’s…“Gah!” I squawk. The clock on the night table reads 8:04.