'lots of yellow roses'
I make Jacob breakfast the next morning, hoping with all my heart that he is going to eat at least some of it.
(After I managed to sneak out of his tight embrace without waking him up, that is.)
I decided on chocolate chip pancakes, something I know he loves. Once it is ready, I put our breakfast plates on a tray and I make my way upstairs to where Jacob is still in bed. Bruno had remained next to him on his side of the bed the entire night.
I sit on my side of the bed and set the tray down between me and Jacob's sleeping form, fully reassured that Bruno will not be coming close for a bite or sniff as he knows I will not be impressed.
“Jakey,” I draw out my voice as I rub his shoulder to rouse him out of his sleep. “Jake,” I say again. I can hear him then take in a deep breath and let out one final snuffle of a snore, something he always does just before he awakens. “Made you breakfast,” I tell him, and then only do I hear him sitting up. I can imagine him giving me a dopy smile with droopy tired eyes.
“Morning,” he says, voice groggy with sleep. “Ooo pancakes,” he says then childishly. I giggle. “Hello doggo,” he says to Bruno.
“For you babe,” I say as I pass him his plate. He makes a happy humming sound as he takes a bite.
“Thank you, it's amazing,” he says. My heart flutters while it is also so happy that he is eating without me forcing him.
I start on my own plate of food and then Jacob is clearing his throat.
“So Troye, I uh,” he sighs. “I just want to say how sorry I am again, not just for last night, but for the past few days too. I shouldn’t have distanced myself from you and your help. I was only making things worse and hurting you in the process,” he says sounding very guilty. I smile att hima as I place a hand on his knee.
“It’s okay, babe. You don’t need to apologise any more than you have. Whatever is going on I--”
“It’s my mom,” he says suddenly. I halt my speech. “She…she is not okay Troye,” he says as his voice becomes strained with sadness. I hear him put down his plate on the bedside table and I do the same, this is clearly not the time that I should force him to eat.
I crawl over to him and tuck myself into his side, resting my head on his shoulder and then I am tracing patterns onto his bicep to console him, to tell him that I am listening.
“She got into a bad car accident, doctors don’t know if she will make it,” he says, my heart sinking at his utterly forlorn tone. “When she called she could barely speak in full sentences, they were about to put her into a medical coma then because the pain was too much,” his voice cracks, I tighten my hold on him. “She is in so much pain, Troye, and then when I spoke with the doctor he told me that she has a very slim chance of making it,” I tighten my grip on him and I hold his hand tightly, he squeezes back just as much. “He said they have been able to keep her stable these past few days when I called him again yesterday like I have been all week but… my mom is dying, Troye. Her injuries are just too severe,” he says, his voice cracking mid-sentence again.
“Oh, love,” I say solemnly as I wrap my arms around his neck, hugging him close.
“So I want to go home and be with her, it may be my last chance,” his voice sounding muffled into my shirt. “I want you to be with me if she does not make it,” he tells me.
“Of course I will go with you. I will do anything for you.”
I mean that with every fibre of my being.
…
It is close to six a.m. when we leave for our flight that Sunday; a very sad Bruno left behind but bless Emma’s huge and sweet heart for saying that she will take care of him for me. The weather is miserable and so is Jacob.
We are silent as we move around the airport and silent when we board the plane. I do not let go of his hand once we are seated.
I can feel the sadness of Jacob radiating off him in big waves. I sense that he is deep in terrible thoughts and as horrible as it may be to say, it is at times like this I am happy I cannot see him like this. As much as it hurts me to know he is hurting and how terrible it feel for me to sense such a horrible forlornness around him, I am happier to not be able to see the dark bags that must be under his eyes or his mussed up hair that he has not brushed because he could not be bothered.
At some point in the short flight back to Jacob’s childhood home, his head falls to the side and he lays it on my shoulder. I thought (wishing) he had fallen asleep but alas a soft, strained voice whispers into my ear, “I’m scared, Tro.”
I tighten my grip onto his hand. “I know baby.”
A silence
“Yellow roses,” he whispers out of nowhere.
“What about yellow roses, baby?” I ask gently.
“Her favourite flower,” he says. “When she goes there must be lots of yellow roses. It's her favourite colour too.”
As much as I want to chide him for being so pessimistic by now saying 'when' instead of 'if', I hold my tongue and just squeeze his hand again while I press a lingering kiss to his temple.
“Yes, love; there will be lots of yellow roses.”
