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Chapter thirty-seven

Elliot

I hadn’t realized how much I needed to be home until I was standing at my front door, Mike holding one hand, crutch in the other, staring at the chipped paint like it was the goddamn Holy Grail.

Two weeks in Florida, then another storm, then a hospital.

My leg ached, my head still felt like it was packed with cotton, my chest throbbed where ribs had cracked, and I was so fucking done with the smell of antiseptic and the sound of beeping monitors.

But I was finally home.

I barely had time to shift my weight toward the doorknob before the damn thing flew open.

“About bloody time, lad!”

Mrs. H’s voice cut through the quiet like a battle cry, and before I could so much as flinch, she was grabbing me by the arm—gently, thank God—and ushering me inside like some long-lost soldier returning from war.

Homer darted between our legs, racing about so quickly I could barely catch his furry blur before it vanished again.

Behind Mrs. H, Matty and Omar stood in my living room, grinning like they had been waiting for this moment all night. A tall guy I didn’t recognize, with black hair, bushy brows, and stupidly perfect teeth, stood with them.

I barely got my crutch planted before Mike’s dog launched himself at me.

“Jesus, Homer!”

I stumbled back a step, barely keeping myself upright as ten pounds of fur and boundless energy shoved against me, his tail thudding against my leg like a drum, cock pounding my jeans with all the might of a porn star on crack. He was whining, tongue lolling, paws scrambling up my side like he wanted to climb inside my ribcage just to be closer.

Mike was there in an instant, his hands firm on my waist, steadying me before I could topple over. His warmth was solid behind me, his fingers brushing against my skin where my shirt had ridden up.

“You good?” he murmured, low and steady in my ear.

“My jeans might never be the same, but yeah.” I grinned, trying not to wince.

He didn’t let go immediately.

And I didn’t move away.

Then Homer let out another dramatic whine, and I had bigger problems.

“All right, all right,” Mike laughed, finally reaching down and prying his horny little guy off my leg, clutching him to his chest.

I reached over and scratched his head, earning a flurry of licks and barely contained whines. “Missed you, too, little guy.”

Matty grinned. “We told him you were coming home, and he lost his damn mind. He’s been pacing at the door for an hour.”

Mrs. H scoffed. “Aye, and he’s not the only one. You’d think this lot had been waiting for Christmas morning the way they’ve been hovering.”

“First of all,” Omar said, raising a hand, “Christmas is a big deal.”

“And second,” Matty added, “shut up. We have no respect for the elderly. We will chuck you out the window and feel no remorse.”

“This is Mateo. He’s the basketball coach at school I told you about, the one who’s helping create the ally group at school.” Mike gripped my arm and pointed at the newcomer. “He insisted on being here to, and I quote, ‘determine if you are real.’”

I wasn’t sure how to take that, so I inclined my head toward Mateo and said, “Hey,” offering a half wave.

Mateo gave me a ’sup head nod, then said something in Italian that sounded like melting butter on a hot roll.

Mrs. H, still fixated on being threatened by our resident screaming queen, rolled her eyes, flicked Matty a bird, then turned to me with a sharp look. “Now, we’ve all met. Are you hungry, or do I need to force-feed you?”

I blinked. “Uh—”

Matty and Omar exchanged the smuggest grins I’d ever seen.

I frowned. “What?”

Omar smirked, crossing his arms. “You will see.”

Mrs. H dragged me toward the kitchen.

The smell hit me first.

Rich, cheesy, familiar.

My stomach clenched, but this time not from pain or exhaustion—from hunger. Real, deep, solid hunger. And there, in the middle of my kitchen table, fresh out of the oven, was a massive, perfect pan of lasagna.

I froze.

Matty let out a cackle. “Told you he’d have a reaction.”

Mrs. H put her hands on her hips, looking so damn pleased with herself. “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me, lad?”

I gawked.

“You made lasagna ?”

She sniffed, like she was offended I had to ask. “Of course I did.”

“Is there suet in there? Maybe a liver or blood or something else utterly nauseating?” I kept staring, trying to divine the joke or trick. “You never make anything but Scottish food.”

“Well,” she said, waving a hand, “I figured I’d give your weak American stomachs a break. Besides, Mike needed to see what a proper, unburnt, definitely-not-doused-with-an-extinguisher lasagna looks like.”

Matty snorted. “More like she felt bad for giving Mike so much shit about burning one.”

“Watch your damn mouth, boy.” Mrs. H whirled on him. “Mike’s shit was deserved. Who sets a fucking lasagna on fire?”

Omar wheedled. “You feel bad, don’t you?”

“I do not,” she snapped, but the way her lips twitched betrayed her.

Mike stepped up beside me, his voice low, teasing. “You okay? You look like you might cry.”

I kicked him lightly with my good foot. “Shut up.”

But truth be told, I did feel something dangerously close to overwhelmed.

Not because of the lasagna itself, but because of what it meant.

Because they had done this for me, and I wasn’t used to that. I wasn’t used to people waiting for me, cooking for me, giving a shit about whether or not I was okay.

I swallowed against the sudden lump in my throat and rubbed the back of my neck. “All right, all right. Let’s eat before Matty combusts. I’d never get all the bits of glitter and chiffon out of my couch.”

Mike laughed. Mrs. H cackled. Omar grinned and kissed Matty’s cheek.

Matty cheered and clapped his fingertips together.

It was chaos—beautiful, perfect chaos.

Mrs. H barely got the lasagna cut before Matty was trying to steal an extra piece. Omar swatted at his hand with a fork, and Homer weaved between our legs, hoping something would fall.

And Mike—

Mike kept looking at me.

I felt it every time.

Little glances over the rim of his glass, fleeting brushes of his knee against mine under the table.

It was . . . distracting.

And I couldn’t get enough.

Which was probably why I didn’t notice how Mrs. H had been watching me.

“So,” she said suddenly, spearing me with a look. “How’s it feel to be back home, lad?”

I swallowed my bite and shrugged. “Better than a hospital bed.”

“Aye,” she said, nodding. “And better than a certain professor’s bed, I assume?”

I choked on my drink.

Matty wheezed. “Oh, my God.”

Mike turned a violent shade of red. “Mrs. H—”

“Oh, don’t,” she scolded, taking a sip of her wine. “We all know you’ve been shackin’ up. I see you sneaking around the neighborhood, holding hands, acting like nobody’s watching as you slip into each other’s houses.”

Mike groaned into his hands. “I hate you.”

She smiled. “No, you don’t.”

Omar, barely holding it together, cleared his throat. “So, uh. What’s the over-under on Elliot ever being able to have a normal dinner again?”

Matty hummed, pretending to think. “Mm. Zero percent.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “Anyway.”

“What are you going to do now?” Omar asked.

My brow quirked. “What do you mean?”

“Well . . .” He set his wine glass down and stared across the table. “They aren’t letting you work for, what, two weeks?”

“Longer, if the doc gets her way.”

“So? That’s a lot of time for a guy who’s not used to sitting around at home.”

He wasn’t wrong. Shit. I hadn’t really thought about it. Everything had happened so fast. One minute, I was in a bucket, swaying, trying to keep the sheets of rain out of my eyes. Then next, some paramedic was poking and prodding like I was a voodoo doll.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I admitted. “Guess I’ll have to figure that out tomorrow.”

Mike reached down and squeezed my leg, as if to say, “We’ll figure it out.”

I nearly kissed him right there in front of everyone.