Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 88220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
“I hear you. I hear all of you,” Carter said, reaching for the car door to shut in our faces. He lowered the window, adding, “Let’s get Dash well then go from there.”
On that note, the car drove away. Once it was out of sight, we finally turned toward the house. She held on to me tightly. “I never said it, but the way Dash kept declining so quickly, I was afraid this wasn’t going to end well.” She untangled from me, wiping the tears under her eyes. “I didn’t let myself go deeper. I tried to be present in your place, but now that he’s safe at home, on the mend, it’s all emotionally overwhelming. I love that guy.”
“I think he’s overwhelmed too,” I said, slowly climbing the steps as she trailed behind me.
“I’m not overwhelmed. You are,” Dash called hoarsely with humor through the open living room window. My eyes narrowed, seeing him clearly. He was supposed to be in bed where I’d left him, and he’d outsmarted me again. Now I had to remember to push that wheelchair out of reach.
“I like the idea of them moving closer.” I lifted my finger, shaking it at him.
His I-got-you laughter was music to my ears.
14: The Overdo
Beau/Dash
Beau
Three Days Later
“You’re overdoin’ it,” I said with force, glaring at Dash in the bathroom mirror. I was seconds away from a big fucking fit right here inside our bathroom. “I’m not gonna say it again.”
“I feel like that’s untrue,” Dash said, squirting a decent amount of toothpaste on his brush, ignoring me completely.
“You clearly don’t love me enough to do the important parts of a fast recovery.”
“I love you beyond reason. You know that,” Dash said calmly, splashing water on his toothbrush.
“You had back-to-back therapy appointments today,” I said to his profile, tossing out a hand because it needed to be thrown out, no other reason. Definitely not for Dash to try and understand reasonableness. That was never going to happen. “You should be asleep right now. Dammit, you’re a frustratin’ man. Why do I have to keep sayin’ this? Did you lose brain cells while you were sick?”
“Maybe,” he replied. “Makes sense. I like the beard, it frames your face perfectly. Makes your eyes pop.”
I instantly turned to the mirror to assess the growth. Beards were weird. They itched. There was literally zero way to keep it clean when you ate. I felt gross, always bringing the napkin to my lips after every bite. But I didn’t have to shave much. We’d see how it went. “You think? I think the light facial hair was complex enough to deal with. This takes it to a different level.”
“Keep it. If I ever build an arousal again, I’m gonna like that between my ass cheeks. Well, I’ll enjoy it in every way.” Dash bent to rinse his mouth, then dried his lips before rising again to stare at his own frail, skinny body in the mirror. Eventually his gaze rose to his hair. “I’m thinking about keeping it longer. It needs a style. Lauren’s coming over next Sunday to shape and dye it. What’d you think?”
Our gazes collided in the mirrored glass. “You always look good anytime you change it up. Try it. If you don’t like it, change it again,” I said. Fashion and design were always his go-to distractions. I only went along with whatever he wanted if it didn’t cost a lot of money.
“Fake it ’til you make it,” he muttered, which was his anthem these days.
That phrase bothered me. It didn’t speak of allowing his energy to return in a healthy manner. To prove my point, Dash’s entire body swayed to the left. My hands darted out, grabbing his chest to keep him upright.
“You’ll have a setback if you don’t make better choices, and I’m tired of sayin’ it to you. If you want me to continue to help you, then you fuckin’ need to rest, eat the small meals we bring to you, take warm showers sittin’ on the chair, and take the medicine for your cough. You handle the therapists’ programs like a pro, but you’re pushin’ yourself too hard durin’ your downtime. We also have to do better at readin’ the summary of your day, and what’s comin’ at you the next day.”
“Fucking?” he quipped, at my use of the word. “That’s my word. And what happened to you not talking about it with me anymore? You just said you weren’t saying it again.”
He knocked the faucet handle to turn off the water. Fatigue etched fine lines in the corners of his eyes. They were turning into deep ruts. The skin over his mouth stretched across his teeth. He was seriously skinny. I’d thrown away his array of pajama pants, and helped him into a pair of fitted boy shorts and a T-shirt that three weeks ago highlighted his small belly. Now, the fabric hung off him.