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Chapter thirteen

Naomi

So much for hoping that exhaustion might quell some lingering humiliation.

An overwhelming sense of shame tugs on my chest, swirling with still-present nausea and a dull headache at the base of my neck that hasn’t completely gone away.

Through weary eyes, I watch Robbie move around the kitchen as I sink deeper into the couch.

The kitchen shines from here. There isn’t a speck of flour on the countertop, and all the dishes have been cleaned and put away.

The appliances even seem to be sparkling.

“Honey or no honey?” The break in his voice is miniscule, but I pick up on it all the same. Another twinge of guilt washes over me. I absolutely hate that he has to see me in this pitiful state—and how embarrassing it is that he had to worry about me in the first place.

“Yes. Honey, please.” My head suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds as the pressure of my headache surges. I settle farther against the couch, resting my temple against the leather cushion, letting my heavy eyes drift closed.

“Your echinacea tea.” Robbie’s voice brings my eyes open as he hands me the mug. “With a side of ‘Thank you, Robbie’ and ‘I’ve learned my lesson, Robbie.’”

I clear the congestion from my throat as I take the first sip, savoring the warmth that travels all the way down to my stomach, soothing me from the inside out.

“Listen, I agree that I’m a pathetic mess right now, but you’re going to have to help me out here—what lesson is that?” I say wearily, watching him put the honey right back where it belongs. Despite my current state, I’m coherent enough to notice and appreciate him cleaning up after me.

“Well, I’m going to take a wild guess here, but I’m betting that maybe you took on too much? They said stress most likely played a role in how aggressively the flu affected you. Did you overbook yourself?”

I wince, scrunching my nose. “There might be some truth to that statement…”

“So you took on too much and ran yourself ragged,” he says pointedly as he returns to the couch, sinking right next to me.

His gaze snags intensely on mine, holding a mix of compassion, worry, and a shred of indignation.

A shiver runs through me at the depth of his stare—or maybe it’s from the virus. I’m not entirely sure anymore.

“You probably don’t want to sit too close to me,” I croak out, effectively ignoring his accusation.

“I’m not worried about it.” I swear he inches even closer. “Besides, that caution went out the window when you were drooling on my chest on the way into the hospital.”

I roll my eyes, too physically spent to think of a comeback.

He reaches to tuck the blanket around me with gentle precision before again roaming his gaze over my face.

He leans forward to slowly tuck a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind my ear.

Embarrassment flushes through me once again, but it quickly vanishes when I watch the emotion in his eyes deepen.

And as his finger moves behind my ear, I can’t help but notice there’s a certain charge to the way it feels.

Almost as if he’s leaving a trace of a spark along my skin as he moves.

It’s something he’s done countless times before, touching me this way, but for whatever reason, this movement feels different. It comes with a layer of vulnerability and rawness that hasn’t ever been there before.

Maybe it’s the shadow of concern that still burns hot in his eyes.

Or maybe it’s the way he’s been doting on me with a fervor that’s rare for him.

Either way, I’m all of a sudden hyperaware of how he’s looking at me—and of how close he is to me.

Have my daydreaming tendencies short-circuited from illness, and now I’m imagining things?

Or is whatever this tension is that’s ruminating between us actually real?

“Honestly…what happened?” he asks softly, resting his head against his knuckles, perching an elbow on the couch ledge. Even with the intensity of his stare, I feel vulnerable in the same comfortable kind of way I always do with him.

“I don’t know,” I admit quietly, looking down at the tea, blinking back a sudden surge of unexpected tears. “It’s just hard.”

When I bring my gaze back up to sheepishly meet his, I notice the way his jaw clenches before he rolls his lips.

“What’s hard?” he gently prods. I inhale a deep breath, feeling my emotions rise even closer to the surface. Exhaustion lays heavy on my entire body, making it too hard to attempt to hold anything back.

“Standing up for myself,” I whisper, feeling a wet tear slide down my face. The air in my chest gets caught in my throat when he brings his finger up to swipe it away. I force myself to look away from his stare, unable to face the weight of his attention any longer.

“I don’t know why it’s so hard,” I say softly.

“Your dad?” he asks. There isn’t a harsh opinion or malice in his tone. He simply waits patiently for me to continue.

“Yeah…I’m sure that’s where it all stems from,” I continue slowly, speaking the truth I know deep in my soul. “The way he’s always made me feel. Being an only child, the attention on me was stifling—and his expectations were astronomical.”

I sniffle, feeling the weight of insecurity and shame pressing on me, just as heavy as the exhaustion. “Nothing I did was ever good enough. And you know him… He’s never afraid to express his disappointment.”

His wordless nod serves as encouragement to continue.

“So, I’ve spent my entire life trying to do more.

More of everything. More of my time and my energy.

More effort. Although, even my max efforts still always fell short in his eyes.

I guess, at some point, that mentality bled over into every other aspect of my life, and here we are…

I’m a twenty-five-year-old woman who pathetically searches for Daddy’s approval, can’t say no to save her life, and constantly dreams of a life she’s not brave enough to make reality. ”

Robbie swallows hard, eyes still pinned on me. Then he gives a slight shake of his head. “You know what I see?”

I shrug, feeling completely defeated and worn down.

“I see a kind-hearted woman.” Again, his voice cracks. “One who’s willing to help at the drop of a hat. One who sees the beauty in the world and isn’t afraid to dream of its endless possibilities. That’s inspiring, Naomi.”

I offer a half-smile and am about to protest when he cuts me off.

“I also see a woman whose true beauty—in every sense of the word—hasn’t been appreciated in the way that it should have been—by myself included. And I'm sorry for my part in that.”

His words make my mouth clamp shut, too stunned to respond. I blink a few times before managing to squeak out, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Maybe not, but I’m still a fool for not seeing you fully before all this.”

I pause, wondering what context sits behind his words and why they suddenly make me feel like I can’t breathe again. The fact that he’s looking at me in a way he hasn’t before makes me wonder if he’s also talking about something that he hasn’t yet voiced.

The thought alone makes my stomach twist with a swoop. Not feeling even remotely steady enough for any direction this conversation may potentially take, I avoid his gaze by taking a steadying sip of tea.

“Are we going to talk about your brother?” I ask, redirecting the topic. “I might have been mostly out of it, but I would recognize a Leery hairline anywhere.”

His face hardens as his jaw clamps shut again.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I blurt out, regretting asking.

“No, it’s okay.” He gives me a small smile, but I can see the pain behind it clear as day. He clears his throat, adjusting his position on the couch. The struggle to find the right words is written all over his face.

“I wasn’t expecting to run into him,” he finally admits softly.

“Was that the first time you’ve seen him? Since graduation?”

He nods solemnly.

I wait for him to say anything else, but it doesn’t come.

“Is that why you don’t like being here? Because you don’t like seeing your family?”

“Pretty much,” he says slowly.

“Did something happen?” I know I’m pushing my luck, and fully expect to be shut down at any moment, but I can’t help wanting to know more.

“More or less.”

Again, I wait for anything else he’ll give me, but it doesn’t come. I swallow against my scratchy throat. The thoughts start to feel fuzzy in my head as exhaustion grips me once more with a vengeance. I drop my head against the couch, feeling the heavy pull of sleep.

Robbie’s smile hangs crooked as his eyes slowly roam every inch of me. A shiver runs down my spine, and again, I’m unclear whether it’s from the flu or from the weight of his stare.

“Are you tired?” he asks gruffly.

All I can do is nod in response, too tired to form words at this point. My eyes drift closed when I can no longer hold them open.

“Go ahead and sleep.” I feel him grab the teacup from my hands before the blanket is tucked tightly over my shoulders. The last words I hear before drifting off to sleep are whispered softly from somewhere close.

“I’m not going anywhere.”