Brock never thought he'd feel so grateful to be back to his apartment. Andrea held the door open with her bright grin, for the caregiver to push Brock's wheelchair in. He was a heavy-set man in his mid-thirties called Ben. He'd taken care of Cassidy's father a year ago, and the Section Chief swore he was the best in town.
Brock didn't like the idea of that tall, fit stranger alone with him and Andrea, but he had no choice. He wouldn't be able to walk at least for the next couple of weeks and he did need somebody strong around, to help him until he got the hang of being chained to the wheelchair.
It was foolish, feeling humiliated when the man lifted him to set him gently on his bed. He knew it, but he couldn't help it. He'd never been so helpless in his whole life and he didn't want to adjust to his current situation. That would only hinder his recovery.
Whether he liked it or not, he had to let Ben pile up the pillows behind his back and then bring up his bandaged feet.
The man gave him the TV remote and pointed at the door. "I'll get your stuff from the car. Anything else you need, Mr. Brockner?"
He tried not to grumble—and failed. "No, thanks."
As soon as Ben walked out, Brock closed his eyes with a long sigh. He could hear Andrea move about the family room, humming a song. The scent of lavender from his sheets reached his nose. He ran his fingers over the soft comforter, until the back of his hand found the warn strip of sunshine across the bed.
Ben came back too soon, breaking the moment of quiet peace. The first in a long time.
"Want me to keep your stuff in the closet?"
"No, thanks. If you don't mind, I'd like to check it first."
"Sure." The man left the duffel bag on the bed, within Brock's reach, and nodded at the door. "I'm gonna set up camp. Just call me if you need anything."
Brock only nodded. Set up camp. The man had explained that he would spend the whole weekend there with them. By Monday, he said, Brock would be able to manage himself around, enough to allow him to go home at night and come back in the morning from then on. But until Brock learned the basics, and since there was no spare room for him, Ben would set a bunk in the living room, to have Brock within his earshot those two nights.
Brock huffed, annoyed at the idea. To get distracted, he turned the TV on and pulled his bag closer. While the news reported the last updates on the aftermath of Paris attacks—Brussels? Who knew...—he confirmed Tanya was telling the truth back in Portland: Gillian had packed each and every little thing he'd left at the cabin in the Northern Woods. He took out his book, his computer, and paused with a curious frown to open his glasses case. The small cloth to clean them was neatly stretched to cover the lens.
The fresh smell of conditioner told him she'd had all his clothes washed. Everything was ironed and folded without a flaw. He found his pajamas set apart in a plastic bag, his socks and underwear in another. Those were no laundry bags, meaning she'd sorted his clothes herself. He almost blushed at the thought of Gillian sorting his underwear, and scoffed at himself. Not like those were the first boxer trunks she'd ever seen.
Then it hit him.
This was all so... so Wednesday breakfast. That was the only way to describe it. It was all just the same: packing his go-bag and waking up with him to a workday. The kind of feeling that would fed on simple things of everyday life. Growing from all they had in common to bridge over their thousand differences and turn them into another part of the bond between them.
Brock blinked, staring blankly into the open bag on his lap. He hadn't had much time to go about Gillian's confession. When he was able to snap out of his utter surprise, he got too busy finding the dirtiest reasons to turn his back on her and on his own feelings. To end up clinging to life only because she asked him to—because she needed him to. After that, morphine had defused any pretension of denial he'd harbored. Pain and meds blocked his thousand defensive barriers and exposed his raw emotions.
Even so, until now he'd taken Gillian's words as an abstract statement about a socially standardized feeling—love. But now he had before his eyes a taste of what she meant. A little proof to remind him none of Gillian's feelings would quite fit a social standard. Because she was so much deeper than that.
For Gillian, loving him was her only way to acknowledge she respected and trusted him to a scary extent. Because she thought him worthy of sharing the precious little things of life she cherished.
He suspected that if he ever asked her about any of it, her answer would be, "Come again?" as if he'd spoken in tongues. But he didn't want to fight the temptation of caging her feelings in words, to make them easier to grasp.
Brock grabbed his shirts and dropped them back into the bag with a suspicious scowl. What was that under them? Not the bottom of the bag. He moved his hand slowly, telling himself he had to be wrong. There was no way she—a box. A narrow, longish box.
He closed his eyes with a soft chuckle. He could bet his last dose of morphine it'd be wrapped in black paper. Maybe even with a small white ribbon?
A knock on the door brought Andrea by his side with a tea. She saw the box in his hands and smiled. "No way I'm letting you open it while you're on meds," she said. "Want me to take it to the drinks tray?"
Brock could but shake his head, eyes nailed to the present—later on he would worry about how and why Andrea knew what it was.
She set the mug on his nightstand and kissed his temple. "Have a tea now, Dad. Still two hours to lunch."
"Thanks, dear," he muttered, just out of inertia.
Andrea smiled again and left him with the box. He hesitated. He didn't want to unwrap it until it was time to open the bottle. But he was curious to see if she'd attached any kind of message to the present. He turned the box in his hands and found the small envelope stapled to the little white ribbon.
His lips curled up on their own accord at seeing Gillian's nice handwriting, shaping only two words on the card: "Get well."