It says a lot about how just un-Andrew-like he is right now that he doesn’t seem to register how wrinkled and uninviting the bed looks.
“Hold up there, sickie,” I say, grabbing the back of his sweater and pulling him back with more ease than I should. “Let’s just take a pause, sit in this nice chair here for a second.”
I help him toward the black leather chair in the corner, pulling a blanket off the arm and tucking it around him.
“Want to sleep,” he says, leaning his head against the wall.
“I know you do,” I say, feeling a wave of tenderness as his lashes sweep down onto the dark shadows beneath his eyes. I let my fingers touch his hair, just for a moment, before I spring into action. “One minute, ’kay?”
Acting fast, I open the window. It’s in the low forties outside, but the room desperately needs fresh air, and with that hideous sweater and the blanket, he’ll be fine.
His linen closet’s in the same place as mine, right across from the bathroom. His spare set of sheets is dark gray and impressively folded, right down to the fitted sheet.
I rush back to the bedroom, but he hasn’t moved; he’s fast asleep, upright in the chair. Poor guy.
I hurriedly strip the bed of the wrinkled old sheets and replace them with the fresh, clean ones. I fold back one corner to make it easy for him to get in, and return to his side.
“Andrew.” I kneel beside him, touch his arm. “Andrew?”
His eyes flutter open, and he looks surprised to see me there. “Georgiana.”
“Still with that?” I ask with a smile.
“Always,” he murmurs.
I laugh softly. “All right, then. Let’s get you into bed, okay?”
He gives me a sleepy nod, letting me help him out of the chair and shuffle him the few steps toward the bed.
Andrew gives me a startled look, apparently not too sick to register that the sheets have been changed. “You did this?”
“Yup, the Scarecrow figured it out,” I say without heat as I half shove him into bed. I wait until he slowly hauls his legs onto the mattress, which seems to take an eternity in his current state, and then pull the covers up to his chin.
I tuck them around his shoulders, the way my mom always did for me when I was little, and maybe I let my fingers brush against the stubble of his jawline, just a little.
His eyes are closed again, and I think he’s asleep already, but when I start to pull away, he reaches up, grabs my wrist.
It’s like the other day when he was angry, and yet…different.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“You’re welcome.” I bite my lip. “I can leave if you want, or I’m happy to stay—”
“Stay.” His eyes close again, and his next words are a sleep-filled murmur, but they stop my heart for a second anyway. “Need you,” he says, his voice low and exhausted.
Need you.
Andrew Mulroney needs me. And go ahead, call me a sissy, but my eyes water, just a little.
It’s sort of nice to be needed.
Especially by him.
Georgie
WEDNESDAY, EARLY EVENING
The poor guy sleeps all day. I mean, like, all day.