If this were a math equation, it would add up to two people who care deeply about each other, but can’t be together. I needed time to remember this before I could tell Jack that Cole was going to be fine. He would wonder why I was still sad and I needed to get past my grief because I should be elated that Cole had woken up.
It was time to get back to my life. On a normal day, meaning not the type of day I had experienced over the past month when my life revolved around living at a hospital, I would do something productive. I would plan one of my lessons for class or write a blog post for any number of online sites that now asked me to contribute. But that was before I gave up teaching and barely touched my computer. Of late, productivity was reduced to taking a shower as quickly as possible so I could return to Cole’s bedside within an hour.
Today, I felt like I was in the way. The doctors wanted to speak with him. The occupational therapist needed to assess his ability to take care of himself. The physical therapist showed him how to maneuver in his daily activities. For the first time in over a month, I had no reason to stay.
I realized that I should go to the grocery store. Put on makeup. Go for a walk. What I shouldn’t do is think about the surprise in Cole’s eyes when he heard that I had been by his side for over a month. I couldn’t tell if that look meant he was happy to learn I never stopped caring or freaked out that I hung around like a love sick puppy.
Now home and feeling alone, I flip on the television and find the Food Network. The Pioneer Woman is making something amazing, naturally. She’s going to hop in that cute pick-up and drive it to the ranch where her hungry rancher husband and boys will greet her with rumbling stomachs and show immense appreciation. It’s nice to feel needed. I know it’s ridiculous and somewhat awful that I’m feeling sad over no longer being needed, but my feelings are leftover from when Cole and I first broke up. If only I could convert them to the good kind of leftovers like the ones the Pioneer Women is reinventing like her post-Thanksgiving turkey stuffing sandwiches. I stared at the television wistfully; she always had a recipe up her sleeve that made every day feel better.
Three days after Cole woke up and I returned home, I had made immense progress with my battle against time. I still hadn’t left the house, but I managed to keep busy and fill my mind with thoughts other than the way we used to be. I had finally tackled my dreaded household to-do list. It’s the kind of list that everyone keeps, but rarely has the time or inclination to pursue. It’s amazing what a broken heart can accomplish.
I cleaned out The Drawer. It’s the one that is found in many kitchens. Mine is filled to the brim with coupons (most expired), restaurant offers (typically from less than stellar establishments), and bits of this and that like extra balls of string, those twisty tie white thingies that come with the plastic bags, and lone plastic lids long misplaced from their containers.
After The Drawer, I retreated to my closet and organized my clothes by season. I moved onto the bathroom to sort out old makeup and throw away anything with a color from a previous decade. I thought about re-grouting a sink, but worried that I would only succeed in stripping away some of the stretchy stuff that lined the sink and the rest of it would remain stubbornly in place. I decided to buff the kitchen counter granite instead.
The place looked cleaner and more organized than it had in years. I should be proud of my DIY skills, but as I sat on the couch, alternating between flipping channels and trying to read, I was struck by how much time I still had on my hands. I needed to distract myself in a more positive way, but as I laced up my tennis shoes in preparation for a run, the text message on my phone sounded.
Cole. Even seeing his name appear on my phone made me jump a bit. I scanned the message. Damn my heart for starting to pump so madly in my chest. It’s just a text. As I read, I couldn’t even imagine how he thought I might not want to help him. I guess he was giving me an opening, but my poor heart was floating on a raft without a life preserver. There was no saving it from whatever was coming its way.
I text back: Of course I’ll help you.
Thank you is his response.
I had two more days before Cole would be discharged. The house was already spotless, but I wanted to buy some decent groceries and if I were being honest, some sexy clothes. I needed the kind of clothes that one would lounge around the house in, but look amazing while doing it. Something that shouts: I didn’t lift a finger to look like this. I just naturally ooze sex appeal. Not that I was expecting anything to happen.
I texted Luci, my best friend about a nanosecond after Cole texted. She reminded me not to have expectations. I understood. The only expectation I had was not to expect anything. Cole made it quite clear before his accident that we couldn’t be together. No situation could change our substantial age difference. I was prepared to just be his caretaker for two weeks, nothing more. Maybe in time, we would be friends, or at least that’s what I tell Luci.
What I’m not prepared for is how our text messages begin to increase in the days leading up to my getting Cole from the hospital. I tell myself he’s probably bored. Maybe that’s all it is, but I can’t help reading into the messages. They’re sweet. He makes jokes. He tells me about the comings and goings of some of his friends I’ve heard him mention. It’s nice to talk with him again without all of the tension we brought upon ourselves before.
Mainly our text conversations are benign, just the stuff between two friends. But every once in awhile they tiptoe into a more personal nature. He asks if I’m sure I wouldn’t like to sleep at his place, but I remind him that he doesn’t have a guest room. When his response is “and…” I send him the emoji with the rolling eyes. I analyze the nuances of what he says and imagine what our days and nights will be like.
I begin to wonder about this more when there’s a pause in our texting, but those three little dots appear indicating he’s still on our text message window and contemplating what to write. I stare at my phone, and then stare at it in disbelief when his response finally arrives: I know it’s a bit inconvenient having me, but I have to admit, I’m looking forward to seeing you walk around in your lingerie.
I answer back: Maybe I should go shopping.
When I finally pick him up, I’m struck by how much he’s recovered in just the three days since I left the hospital. One shouldn’t underestimate the value of a hot shower. Bed baths aren’t the most effective method of personal grooming. Now that he’s up and about, he was quickly beginning to look like his old self. His beard is trimmed and he’s shaved. He smells like soap rather than antiseptic. He’s not as muscular as he was before the accident, but not as thin as he was even last week.
Granted, he was an elite athlete and his recovery would be faster than most, but I still wasn’t expecting him to look quite so good for someone just being released from the hospital. His arms may have been a little smaller than when they used to circle my waist. His hair may have been a little longer. But those eyes… those eyes were still the same as the ones that bore into my soul when he would lie on top of me.
I’m a bundle of nerves as we drive back to my place. We say very little, except the expected pleasantries. I look good. He looks good. Did you get lunch before I arrived? We determine that it would be best to stop off at his place to pick up some of his clothes and toiletries before heading back to mine.