Or is it possible that love doesn’t let us choose if we believe in it or not? Does it just happen?
The voices in my head form a circle, surrounding me, and chant, He’ll never love you. You don’t get love. He’ll never love you.
I’m not going to think about it. It’s ridiculous. Being nice isn’t love. It’s just basic human decency. If anything, he feels sorry for me.
On my way out of the bathroom, I run right into him in the hall. I laugh a little when I notice we could almost be twins—both of us wearing gray sweatpants and white T-shirts.
“You’re awake,” he says. “I was just coming to check on you.”
I smile groggily at him. “I just woke up.” Even after a five-hour nap post- surgery, I still feel weak and foggy from the anesthesia.
“Good timing. I made you a protein shake.” He holds up a tall glass and a spoon.
“Oh.” My smile withers. “Thank you.” I take it from him and he follows me to my room, where we sit on my bed together.
“I made it right—it’s new almond milk, brand-new vanilla protein powder that I just opened today, and ice cubes.”
I stare at it with trepidation. It’s not just a shake. It’s a twenty-ounce glass full of bad memories. When I was eight years old, I was so hungry I drank a milkshake that had been left in the fridge for over a week. It was lumpy and sour and it took over my body for three horrible days. I can still taste the thick vileness in my mouth.
I fight the urge to gag as I swirl the spoon though the shake, searching for lumps or bumps. There aren’t any.
This isn’t that shake.
This is safe and fresh. What I would label clean.
But still…
Jude watches me with a raised eyebrow and I feel like crying. He’s trying so hard and I’m so fucked up inside. I wish I could have something different to eat or drink, but almost everything liquid or mushy scares me. It’s all so blended and unidentifiable.
I want my bread and butter.
It never occurred to me that my go-to safe foods would be uneatable at a time like this. I feel betrayed.
Maybe I lied to myself about my eating habits just as much as I lied to myself about love. I thought I was keeping myself safe, but all I was doing was nurturing a bigger problem.
“You have to put something in your stomach,” he says softly. “I promise it’s safe to drink.”
My jaw muscles ache as I smile at him. “I trust you,” I say.
Slowly, I drink the shake while he distracts me by talking about the house and the rest of the renovations he wants to do. He asks me about paint colors and furniture as he brings up pictures on his cell phone for me to see and choose from.
It’s sweet how excited he is about remodeling, and it works—having my mind engaged in something positive doesn’t allow me to focus on food textures and bad memories.
“That was really good,” I say when I take the last sip of the shake. I peek at him from behind the curtain of my hair. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
He shrugs. “It’s kinda my favorite hobby now.”
My heart flip-flops when he winks at me after saying that.
“Do you want to stay and watch a movie with me?” I ask after I take my antibiotic and two Tylenol. I’ve decided not to take the pain killers because I’m afraid they’ll make me sick. “I feel too wobbly to go downstairs.”
The way his eyes shift uneasily from the television to the bed makes me regret asking and putting him on the spot. I’m sure hanging out with me again on a Saturday night isn’t his idea of a good time.
“Um… sure.” He rubs his hand across his chin. “Okay.”
His less-than-enthusiastic reply tamps down the happiness I felt just moments ago.
“You don’t have to, if you have plans,” I say quickly. “I’m totally fine. Just sore and sleepy. Gus and Cassie will keep me company.”
“No… I don’t have any plans. I’ll hang with you for a bit.”
“I have to warn you, I’m planning on watching The Notebook. It’s the ultimate chick flick,” I tease. “If you want to change your mind, I’ll let you out of it.”
He groans. “Nah, I’ll suffer through it just this one time ’cause you had a bad day.”
I haven’t told him about Lisa Rottworth yet. I’m hoping I imagined that she was texting Paige about me being married, and that she didn’t hear Jude’s conversation with the receptionist at all.
We get settled on my bed by piling a bunch of throw pillows up against the headboard. I turn off the ceiling light, switch on the small lamp next to my bed with the cool, blue bulb, then pull my fleece throw blanket up over both of us.