medicine {h.s.}

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

february.

"You're not downstairs?" The words tumble from my lips in a hushed and confused whisper as I stare at Harry from across the landing on the top of the stairs. The smell of bacon is wafting through the house and there is the occasional sound of a sizzle to boot. Since everyone moved in, I've grown used to having my mornings to myself; and that's exactly what they've become: my mornings. Despite the fact that I am not a morning person at all, I'm the only one who can get out the door without a struggle of intense difficulty. I'm always the first one downstairs in the morning, followed by Harry, Monty, and then Ruth—but only barely. When TJ was living here, even he managed to beat Ruth.

Given the current scent of the kitchen, I had presumed that Harry woke up early. No one else who lives in this house would wake up early enough to get themselves downstairs and ready early enough to make a full breakfast scramble. "No," Harry denies, holding the word out for a moment between us. He's shifting around trying to catch a glimpse of who is down there, but ultimately comes up flat. "I thought you were."

I raise an eyebrow at him. "No, I'm right here."

"Well obviously I see that now." Harry quips back, rolling his eyes at me. I shrug my shoulders and give him a cheeky smile. Messing with him in the morning is one of my favorite things to do. "Who is? Ruth?"

"Absolutely not," I shut him down quickly, fighting the urge to laugh at the suggestion. The day I see Ruth wake up early and cook a meal will be the day pigs fly. She hardly is able to wake up in the morning to go to work and do the job that she loves. I doubt whether she would be able to tell the difference of a fork and a spoon at this hour. "Monty?"

On some level, it could make sense for it to be Monty. He loves bacon. It's one of his favorite foods. If he could, I know he would put a bit of bacon on everything. I'm not a fan of the stuff, so I think it's rather fortunate that he doesn't. "Let's check," Harry suggests, beating me out to go down the steps first.

We pad down the stairs quietly, unsure as to who we are going to find in the kitchen once we round the corner. Once on the main level, I can hear soft oldies music playing from the speakers that Monty had bought to put in the kitchen. He insisted that he would be more inspired to cook with music. I've not seen him make one meal since, but I won't fight him on it. They are nice speakers.

Carefully we cross into the kitchen.

The sight is unlike anything that I would have anticipated. Monty is at the island, tossing a bunch of fruits in a bowl: cherries, raspberries, strawberries, pomegranate seeds, and carved chunks of watermelon. Oliver is opposite him, over the stove and swaying his hips to the beat of the song playing. I don't recognize the name of it, but I know Frank Sinatra when I hear him. "Good morning?" I finally say, breaking the silence.

"Oh, shit!" Oliver startles, dropping the whisk that he'd been holding to the floor. The clattering sound startles Monty who drops a bunch of red grapes on the floor as well. "You scared me," he places a hand to his heart as he attempts to slow down his breathing.

More recently, Oliver has begun hanging out with us. He'll come out to the bar with all of us after work or he'll have a game night with us all here. If I liked him before, I absolutely adore him now. He's shorter than Monty—closer to my height than Monty's. He has this sloppy brown hair that he can never manage to tame on his head. I know Monty loves his hair, so with his hands running through it, I imagine that doesn't really help anything. And Oliver has these big brown puppy dog eyes that are so sweet to look at. Since spending more time with him, I can honestly say I couldn't imagine Monty finding anyone more perfect for him.