Page 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

JULIET

The clock glares at me.

Eight-thirty-two.

I’m over an hour late to Ford’s for our planned decluttering session. Today we were supposed to tackle his closet of baseball memorabilia—aka, take it all out of the boxes he hasn’t bothered to unpack since moving to New York. This has been a constant theme since I started helping him last week.

In his mind, all his things are safe and secure since he hasn’t touched them. My mind automatically worries about his memories being squished, jostled, and mishandled by careless movers and how they need to be accounted for.

Clearly, we are not the same.

But none of that matters if I can’t will myself to get out of bed.

Stupid autoimmune disease.

Stupid hormones.

Stupid being a woman-and-bleeding-for-five-days-straight-without-dying.

My phone dings for the umpteenth time from where I left it last night charging, in the kitchen. I’d bet money it’s a certain baseball player—who I absolutely owe an answer to—but the bottoms of my feet are so swollen, and my uterus has my insides wanting to become outsides, and the very thought of crossing even this closet-sized apartment has me pulling the covers up over my head.

Lodhi meows and curls up next to me as if he knows today is not the day for orange cat antics.

“Thanks bud,” I whisper and close my eyes, silently willing sleep to take me and maybe keep me under until my body decides to give me back control.

* * *

“Fuck.”

I’m not entirely positive how long I’ve been asleep, but I know for damn sure Lodhi didn’t learn to cuss while I was out.

My eyes flutter open to two crystal blue eyes staring at me with nothing but unfettered concern.

“Oh, thank God,” Ford exhales, flipping back the stray hair that fell across his forehead. “For a second, I thought you were dead, and your demon cat wouldn’t let me get any closer to check.”

I blink the sleep from my eyes and glance up at where Lodhi has taken a defensive stance on my pillow, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

“Are you talking to me or him?”

“Both of you,” I admonish as I push the blankets down from my shoulders and take stock of my body.

Foggy brain? Check.

Revolting uterus? Yup, still there.

Achy fingers, knees, and feet? Check, check, and check.

The consensus? Sleep did nothing. Everything still hurts.

Ford crosses his arms over his chest, his concern replaced with annoyance. “Why didn’t you show up? Or answer my calls? Or I don't know, answer the door?”

He knocked?

“I had to track down the building super and spin a story about how I was your brother, and we were FaceTiming, and you fell and couldn’t get up.”

I wince as I sit up in bed and prop my pillows behind me. “And he believed you?”

Considering the guy didn’t ask questions about Earl or any of the other enforcers showing up at my apartment, it shouldn’t surprise me that he just let someone in without checking to make sure the story was true. But what could I do? This was the only apartment I could find that wasn’t astronomically priced.

“Clearly,” he says, waving his hands down his body. “Now, are you going to tell me why you’re still in bed, and what I can do to help?”

I arch a scrutinous brow. “Help?”

“Yes, help, Juliet. That’s what family does for each other.”

“I—” Words fail me. I know I claimed him in the cemetery and sure, we’ve gotten closer while organizing his apartment, but there isn’t a world in which I expected him to show up. Especially after everything he’s already done. Even Paige has said I’m a stubborn mule when it comes to asking and accepting help. It’s a skill I’ve yet to master.

Of course, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why. For as long as I’ve lived in this city I’ve only had myself to count on.

My chin drops to my guilt filled chest, and I twiddle my fingers in my lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Ford barks a laugh. “How hard was it to say that?”

“It feels like there’s acid bubbling on my tongue.”

He lets out another soft chuckle and motions for me to make room for him on the bed.

When I do, he sits at my hip, ignoring the hiss from Lodhi. “While I appreciate your apology, it still doesn’t answer my question. What can I do to help?”

“I’m fine. Really.” Maybe if I say it a little slower, he’ll actually believe me.

Ford arches a brow and tilts his head in a way that makes him look far more innocent and adorable than should be allowed.

I sigh, feeling it all the way through my body. “You aren’t going to leave, are you?”

He shakes his head and shrugs. “It’s not like I have a game to be at.”

Which would be my fault as well.

Damn it.

How did I end up here?

He’s like a stray. You feed him once and he won’t leave you alone.

“There isn’t anything you can do.” My eyes narrow and even though I’d like to tell him to get the hell out and let me rot in peace, I don’t have the strength to fight. “I couldn’t get out of bed this morning, and my phone was on the opposite side of the apartment, so I just went back to sleep to see if I could make it go away before my cleaning this evening.”

I don’t miss the way Ford’s eyes dart to the rack of frilly lingerie in the corner at the mention of my job. He won’t come out and say it, but I know he wishes I’d stop cleaning. It’s something I’ve considered now that I don’t have mountains of debt to pay back. At the same time, until I decide what comes next for me, I don’t mind it. It’s easy work and I enjoy the thrill. Plus, I get to work with my best friend.

“Juliet.” He chides and frantically pulls his phone from his pocket. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

I give a halfhearted laugh and place a swollen hand on his forearm. “Please don’t.”

Ford’s eyes lock on where my cherry red knuckles contrast against his skin. “Really, are you okay?”

“I promise I’ll be fine. The ambulance would laugh in your face only for the hospital to tell me this isn’t an emergency.” I want to fault him for his concern, but the way he’s looking at me, like he’d take the pain if he could, nearly breaks me. “This sometimes happens when I get my period. The influx of hormones sets off my immune system and?—”

“The antibodies make you inflamed,” he says softly putting it all together.

And now I want to cry.

I’ll blame the heightened hormones. But the truth is, I’m floored that he’s taken the time to understand the nuances of how my disease works.

I swallow hard and nod, willing the tears burning in my eyes to stay where they are. “Exactly. And it’s a double whammy this month with debilitating cramps. So, yay me.”

A crinkle forms between Ford’s brows as he processes my words, but instead of placating me with I’m sorries, and suggestions for what he thinks would make me feel better, he stands up and heads for the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

He starts opening all the cupboards, clearly searching for something. “Well first, I am going to get you some water because you need to stay hydrated.”

“Thanks, Dr. Hulk,” I say, rolling my eyes, but my tongue feels like sandpaper so who am I to stop him? “Cups are in the cupboard next to the fridge.”

“Thank you.” He grabs one, fills it, and brings it to me. “Then I’m going to make you some food.”

I raise a brow. We both know he is liable to burn whatever he tries to cook.

“Okay, I’m going to order us some food.”

My stomach rumbles right on cue. “Can we get the chicken soup from the Mexican restaurant up the street? It’s my favorite comfort food, but they don’t deliver, and there’s no way I’d be able to make it the two blocks to pick it up.”

Ford smiles and nods like I just trusted him with the nuclear codes. “You got it.”

He places our order and heads out to pick up our food, leaving me to shimmy back under the covers and take another power nap.

When he returns, he’s hefting a canvas tote and begins unloading our food. It becomes clear that the tote is the twin to the one Mary Poppins uses when he keeps pulling out more and more items.

A heating pad.

Chocolate bars of every variety.

Pints of ice cream for each of us—dairy free for me.

Ibuprofen.

Midol.

Ice packs.

Every supplement ever associated with helping Hashimoto’s symptoms.

Bottles of water with electrolytes.

“You got the kitchen sink in there too?” I tease.

“I may have gone overboard.” A light pink hue tinges his cheeks, and he looks away almost bashfully. “I just wanted to help.”

I swear this man was a golden retriever in another life. Or maybe whatever kind of dog Lassie was.

“You did great,” I murmur as I bring a spoonful of soup to my mouth in an attempt to distract myself from the emotions clawing away at my chest. A soft moan escapes my lips, and I shut my eyes, savoring the complex flavors and the way it warms me from the inside out. “Thank you. This is exactly what I wanted.”

Ford's smile is all teeth and reveals his usually hidden dimple. “You’re welcome.”

He puts all the groceries away and sets me up with the heating pad before joining me on the bed with his takeout.

“How often does this happen?” he asks between bites.

I shrug. “Not every month, but I haven’t been able to find any pattern as to why it happens some and not others. Sometimes it’s stress induced. And then there’s the obvious times when I accidentally eat something with gluten.”

“I can’t even imagine.” He sets his spoon down in his rice and looks up. “Will you call me next time it happens?”

I swallow hard and look away. “I would’ve called you today if my phone wasn’t on the other side of the apartment.”

“Which won’t be a problem when the nightstand I ordered for the side of the bed gets here, complete with its own charging station for your phone.”

An exasperated sigh escapes me. “You didn’t.”

“I did.” He lifts his hand, as if that’s going to stop my incoming protest. “And don’t you even try to tell me I shouldn’t have.”

“But—”

“Family, Juliet.”

“You keep saying that, but it’s not an excuse to just take over and do whatever you think is best.” I take another bite, needing a moment to put together my next thought. “It makes this all seem so one-sided. I feel like you know all these things about me, and can step in and do things for me, but I could never do the same for you.”

“But you do,” he counters. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have an organized D&D cart.”

“True.”

“And we’ve exchanged little bits of information while finding ways to make my apartment less chaotic.”

“Also, true.”

“But I get the feeling you aren’t convinced that’s enough.” Ford sets down his takeout and smiles. “Which for the record it is.”

He’s right. But also, wrong.

“I think I’m just trying to understand you. Figure out what makes you tick.” I pause and study the way he hangs on my every word. “Nothing seems to add up.”

“I’m not that deep.” Ford laughs. “What you see is what you get.”

“See, I don’t think that’s true.”

“Then ask me anything.”

“Well, Mr. McCoy…”

That earns me a frown. “What did I say about calling me that?”

“Then let’s start there. Tell me about your dad.”

It’s something I’ve been wondering about. Ford often mentions life with his mom after they left Tyler and Marcus, but he never mentions his father.

“My dad…”

He blinks and his eyes grow distant, but not in a shutting out the world kind of way. More like he’s remembering something that gives his heart the ability to beat.

And I realize that’s what I need. Not the everyday things he tells me, but the things that make him who he is at his core. I need to know I can trust him, because I think there’s still a part of me that’s afraid—even after everything he’s done—that he’ll turn out to be exactly like Tyler said.

“My dad was perfect. He was the kind of man who stood up for what was right. He’d give you the shirt off his back and help you push your car uphill to his shop, then fix it for whatever you could pay him.”

“No wonder you like to help people.”

Ford gives a halfhearted shrug. “I haven’t always been good at it, but it’s always been something I aspire to.”

“Is that why you don’t want to own the name given to you by your dad?”

He nods. “Not yet, at least.”

Ford might say what you see is what you get, but as I suspected there’s more to him than meets the eye. My heart aches for him, and I wonder what it would take for him to see past the hints of self-doubt and believe he’s worthy. Because as far as I can tell, this man’s capacity to care for others is right up there with those nominated for sainthood.

“When did he die?” I ask.

Ford’s eyes drop to his lap. “He was in an accident when I was eight.”

Instinctively, I reach out my hand and rest it on top of his. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

We sit in silence for a beat, the same way we did in the cemetery. It should be awkward, but with Ford even these moments are easy. And I’m not sure what that means. It’s been so long since I’ve had a sense of family. Even still, mine wasn’t like this. My mom always needed to fill the space with music and laughter while my dad met her there with dancing and singing.

This is new for me. And I don’t hate it.

I gently give his hand a squeeze and pull it away. “Will you tell me your favorite memory of him? My dad used to say you can tell a lot about a person by the memories they hold dear.”

“There are so many, but the one that stands out most is when he took me to see the glowing sea.”

“The bioluminescent waves during the red tide?”

“Of course, you know what it is,” Ford says with a chuckle. “It was the summer before the accident. There was a scheduled meteor shower at the same time as the red tide. My dad woke me up in the middle of the night and made me promise not to tell my mom. I learned later she knew about the whole thing, but he wanted to make it special for me. We climbed into his old Chevy C-10 and headed for a secluded lookout that he liked to take my mom to when they were dating.”

I’d bet money it was Lover’s Point. I spent many nights there with Tyler when we were dating. But I’m not about to interrupt him and go down that rabbit hole of memories.

“When we got there, my dad backed up as close to the edge as he could and pulled a bunch of pillows and blankets out of the small space behind the seats in the cab. He made us a bed in the back of the truck, and we sat there for hours, talking and watching the glowing blue tide roll in beneath a sea of stars and meteors.”

“That’s an incredible memory.” My thoughts drift to my own parents, and how I still haven’t called them since Ford freed me of the debt that forced me to cut them out to keep them safe.

If they died tomorrow, would I be okay with only the memories I have?

The answer is immediate. No. I’d selfishly want more. But there’s still a part of me that isn’t ready for that phone call. They’ll want to know where I’ve been—which will be hard to relive and talk about—but more than that, they’ll want to know what my plan is moving forward. And I just don’t know yet. I’m still figuring out how to be me without Tyler and all the bullshit he left behind.

The buzzing of Ford’s phone pulls me from my thoughts.

He picks it up from his lap and when he flips it over, his eyes go wide at the sight of the caller.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

He quickly sends the call to voicemail. “Yup, all good.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

I don’t believe him, but I understand more than most that sometimes we keep secrets because it keeps us safe. And tonight, he’s given me so much of himself that I don’t push.

Ford sets his phone face down on the bed and takes a sip of his water. “So, what does my memory tell you about me?”

That you’re nothing like I’ve been told. You’re one of the good ones. And even though I don’t deserve you, I trust you.

Of course, I don’t tell him that.

I couldn’t possibly. That would open the door to more conversations. It would explore the tiny hints of feelings that keep popping up whenever I’m around him. Feelings I shouldn’t be having. Even if they're mostly platonic. Because that’s what they are.

Platonic.

We’re friends.

Family.

There absolutely isn’t a niggling in my heart that feels a whole hell of a lot like high school all over again.

Nope.

So, I do what I do best. Cower, deflect, and run.

“You want to watch a movie?” Picking up my cell, I wave it in front of him. “I don’t have a fancy ninety-inch TV like you, but I can pull up Netflix on my phone.”

Ford studies every contour of my face, letting me know he sees through my bullshit. Surprisingly, he doesn’t call me on it. His lips lift into an easy smile and he shrugs. “Sounds perfect.”

I fluff the pillows behind me, leaning one against his hip so I can lie sideways, and he can hold the phone for us. “Also, don’t be surprised if I fall asleep again. Just eating made me exhausted.”

Not to mention processing everything I’ve just learned and the realizations I’ll no doubt pour over tomorrow.

“You’re good,” he chuckles.

I make it through two episodes before I pass out again. When I wake, Ford is gone, but on my bed beside me is a chicken-scratched note.

Thanks for letting me take care of you today.

Leftovers are in the fridge.

Ford

Damn it.

Every part of me hates his thoughtfulness.

In the sense that I don’t hate it at all.