Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

44. Netflix & Chill

On the couch, Marcel sits with his back against the arm. I sit in the same manner just opposite of him; our feet sitting in a pattern of each other.

This became my resting spot after bidding adieu to Troy. He and Marcel continued to chat long enough for me to curl up and take a catnap.

Uncomfortable with his loneliness, to wake me, Marcel buried me under soft blankets and bouncy pillows. This was his way of proposing to build a fort. Irritated by my disturbed sleep, I immediately become tolerant at the sight of Marcel's inducing pout.

It took 20 minutes to construct the non-wind-resistant blockhouse. It easily could have taken 5. Underneath, we were too busy fighting about the floorplan, who got which pillows, and how many. We fought about getting into the fort: lifting the blanket or making a maze of pillows and ottomans for entry. Ultimately, we settled the debates over games of Rock, Paper, Scissors. 

"It's great to know that I'm not the only one you give a hard time."

"Troy thinks he's crafty."

"So do you."

"I just– Never– I don't–" Marcel stammerers before surrendering with a shrug.

"He seems cool." I rest against the gray cushions as I break a cookie in half.

"Don't get comfortable."

"Hmm?"

"Don't get comfortable in my house." The order is harmless. He probably loves seeing me in my pajamas, laid up, on his couch in my fuzzy socks.

Slouching lower into the couch, I lift my lavender sock and wiggle my toes in his face. 

"It's hard not to get comfortable in a comfortable house."

Modestly pleased, the hint of a smile tugs on Marcel's lips as he turns towards the TV. "9:46 PM. Are you staying the night?"

"We didn't build the fort for nothing! I haven't finished my cookies. Then, here you go saying I can't get comfortable." I take another bite then reach for my glass of milk. "So, I don't know." 

"But" He fakes a cough as he runs a hand up and down his throat. "I'm sick." The feigned voice is three octaves higher than his usual register and fails to match the scratch of yesterday.

"Like the A-List actor you are." I watch him over my tipped cup. "The last time I checked, your fever was gone."

"Check again."

"Come here." I lean over to set my milk down. As I'm doing so, Marcel gets up to crawl across the sofa. I sit back, raising my hand for him to place his forehead against. "Not bad." Unnecessarily, I use both hands to trail down his neck. The whole time, Marcel's watching my features for any distrusted twitch and wrinkle. "How do you feel?"

As he crosses his arms to rest on my knees, Marcel lists his ailments with a yawn. "My throat hurts. My stomach and chest are sore from working overtime." Leaving my gaze and hands, he turns his attention towards the telly... the television! TV! "My nose isn't stuffy anymore."

"I forgot. I brought you a heating pad."

Ears perking, Marcel lifts his face from my knees as he sports a bleak frown. "I'm not cramping, Angel."

"But it's comfortable."

"I'm good. Thank you."

"Suit yourself." Feeling an unusual hint of rejection, I turn my face towards the flashing TV. I didn't care so much about what was on. I was more coyly embarrassed by my overeager attempt to bring him comfort. A heating pad on any occasion makes me feel better.