Spotlight

39

this one... my heart just...

The next morning, I woke up in a sweat back in my apartment. At first I imagined that this entire time had been a cruel play on my imagination, but when I felt the aches in my legs I knew the pain was all too real.

I tossed over in the duvet and threw it off my burning body. Tate was lying face down in the bed, his head nestled into the pillow. His hair was tightened in a small bun on the back of his head. His back muscles were tensing in his sleep, yet he continued to face head down into the pillow.

I limped into the bathroom in the darkness, and switched the lights on as soon as I closed the door behind myself. I eyed my reflection in the mirror and wondered if this was too a play on my imagination. The digital clock on the corner of the marble bench told me it was four twenty-five in the morning.

I stumbled back to the bed and softly lay down next to Tate. If I was trusting my gut, I was feeling like this was wrong and that I should still be in hospital trying to dig to the bottom of this entire parade with Tristan.

Was it Tristan? Or was that also a play on my mind?

Perhaps I was slowly going crazy in my own solitary. I closed my eyes and prayed for a simple escape.

*************************

When I awoke again in the morning, I woke to the smell of burnt waffles and maple syrup. When I turned over my eyes focused on an image of Tate shirtless, wondering around the kitchen in a pair of overnight slacks. His hair was still tied up from the same bun from last night, and his hair was escaping the hair tie and falling across his face. He constantly tucked the small tufts of hair behind his ears as he stood over the frying pan.

He knew I was awake, although silence still filled the apartment.

"I made waffles and bacon. I got maple syrup because I know that's your favorite mix," he slightly laughed with his back to me. I wondered if any other woman of my age would be attracted to the shirtless back standing ahead of me in the kitchen. Of course, I was attracted to him – my mind was just elsewhere.

I did not bother to question how his filming was going or how he had been living without me in the apartment, instead we made small talk from myself in the bed to him at the stove. I managed to lift myself into the wheelchair despite him telling me to wait for him to make his way back to the bed.

I did not want to be treated like a child. In that sense, I wanted to be able to make my way around without having someone behind me pushing my wheelchair, or lifting me into the darn thing. I made my way to the dinner table and pushed one of the regular chairs out of the way with my arm.

"I'll get it for you," he mumbled, putting down the spatula and resting it on the edge of the bench. Before he could make his way over, I successfully pushed the chair away from myself and he returned to his position at the stove, defeated. I dragged one of the old newspapers on the table across so that I could catch up on some of the news while I was in hospital.

The sound of Tate turning off the stove and dishing up the waffles, bacon and maple syrup filled the room and he set down one of the full plates ahead of me. He didn't speak as he pulled out his own chair and sat down to face me.

I gathered up the knife and fork in my two hands and began slicing into the edge of the waffles. I could hear my heart beating in my chest as the silence filled the room. He occasionally glanced up from his plate to attempt to create a form of eye contact, but I continued to read the newspaper.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Just fine."

I noticed his eyebrows rise as he shook his head and turned his attention back to the plate ahead of him. He quickly polished off the waffles in a moment and a half. He then rose to clean off the plate in the sink and placed it in the dishwasher.