Down to My Soul (Soul Series Book 2)(65)
“I can’t either.” I push my fingers into his hair, gently nudging him far enough back so I can look into his eyes. “I don’t ever want to again.”
I lean up to kiss him, an innocent touch that flares with the desperate intimacy enshrouding us. He deepens the kiss, his hands drifting to my back, pressing me closer. Even with stale breath and two days on us, kissing him is so sweet.
The door opening startles us apart.
“For the love of God, man,” San says. “She’s got pneumonia. You can’t keep your hands to yourself for five minutes? It’s like that?”
I don’t have a fever anymore, but my face fires up because it’s not just San at the door. Aunt Ruthie’s back, along with Bristol, Grip, Grady, Em, and a white-coated doctor, all witnesses to the mortification of our sick bed make out session.
Rhyson steps away, a sheepish grin crooking his lips. He looks back at me, mouthing a silent “sorry.”
“The nurse said you wanted to see your friends.” The doctor walks over to the bed, taking my wrist, checking my pulse. “I guess we should have knocked.”
Grip snickers, a fist at his mouth to catch the sound. His eyes and the smile he gives me are warm. I’m not sure what Rhyson’s told him since Grady’s wedding when he set up our barn loft rendezvous, but he doesn’t seem displeased to see us together again.
Bristol’s glance pops between her brother and me like a rubber band. Her smile is stiff, and I see the concern in her eyes. It’s not for me, though. It hurt me to see Rhyson undone the way he has been since I woke up. I suspect it’s hurt Bristol to see him that way, too. And she knows it’s because of me. When someone loves you, especially the way Rhyson loves me, you have so much power. Every breath you take, every beat of your heart holds sway over them. You’re sometimes moments from crushing them without even trying. Without even knowing. I’m finally understanding that Bristol knows I have that power over her brother, and she’s not sure she can trust me with it.
Sometimes neither am I. Even though he has just as much power over me, sometimes I’m not sure I can trust me with it either.
Everyone crowds around the bed, talking at once, asking if I’m okay. They tease Rhyson ruthlessly about being an irrational pain in the ass while I was sedated. He backs away, propping himself against the windowsill to give them room. Every time I look up, his eyes burn over me like fever, and I have to force myself to look away.
The doctor, Dr. Wells, finally asks everyone to leave so he can examine me more fully.
“When can I go home?” I demand. I feel weak, but so much better even than I have for the last few weeks. “I can recuperate at home, right?”
“I need to examine you, but based on what we’ve been seeing in your lungs, in your levels, that might be fine.” He bends a look over his spectacles. “In a few days, as long as someone is there to take care of you.”
“I’ll make sure she follows all your instructions,” San offers.
“The hell you will.” Rhyson’s sharp words slice into the conversation like it’s butter.
The room goes pin-drop quiet, everyone holding their breath while San and Rhyson hold a stare.
“Let’s work out the details of where she’ll be going and who’ll be enforcing doctor’s orders later.” Grady saves the day with his characteristic diplomacy. “Why don’t we get out of Dr. Wells’ way so he can examine Kai properly?”
Everyone drifts out the door with promises to check on me and hopes that I’ll get better. Rhyson, San, and Aunt Ruthie remain. Before Dr. Wells can shoo them away, I need to clarify something.
“I want to go home,” I say, my voice even and strong, despite the insistent fatigue pressing in the longer I’m awake.
“Of course.” Rhyson grabs my hand. “Sarita will—”
“Not to your place, Rhys,” I say softly, gently, before looking up at Aunt Ruthie. “I need to be in my mama’s house.”
Aunt Ruthie nods, pressing her lips tight against the emotion dampening her eyes.
“Okay.” Rhyson takes a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets and heaving a sigh. “If that’s what you want, then of course I understand.”
He’s studying his shoes, the muscles along his jaw tensed, brows lowered over his eyes.
“Think you could spare some time in the country with me?” I ask, stretching my hand toward him.
A huge grin breaks out on his face, and he takes my hand to his lips, kissing my fingers folded over his.
“I might be able to work that out.”
NOTHING IN THIS HOUSE HAS CHANGED but me.
The pencil dashes Mama made charting my height from childhood and through adolescence still mark the kitchen wall. The same white and green hand-made eyelet curtains hang at the window over the sink. Many a night after dinner, I’d stand here washing dishes, watching Mama cross the yard to her work shed out back where she canned vegetables from our garden, made her soaps, and jarred preserves. She could have done that here in the house, but I think she had Mr. McClausky build that little shed as an escape. As one of the few places she truly had to herself. With Glory Bee below, me sleeping across the hall, and Aunt Ruthie within snoring distance, there wasn’t much room. I know because near the end, I felt these walls closing in on me. With death hovering over our little house and the demands of Mama’s illness heavy on my back, there was barely room to dream. And when Mama could no longer leave her bed, I’d slip off to that little shed to see if there was any peace out there. To my dismay, all I found were shelves of Ball jars stuffed with fruits and vegetables, captured at their peak of freshness. I hope that little shed offered Mama more than that, but I’ve never been sure.