Where Do Broken Hearts Go?

42. Spent

"Do you think you'll be okay until I come to check on you tomorrow?"

"No." Marcel denies before he can give the question any thought.

"Marcel..."

"Do you have to go home?"

"I have work." I remind as I kiss my teeth at the ill, 6-foot toddler. 

"You work right 'round the corner." Displeasure fills his weary sigh as we make our way back up the stairs. Marcel's arm dangles over my narrow shoulders. With three steps left, he abruptly stops. "Wait, baby." He grimaces, holding his stomach. Oh shit.

Dropping his blanket, Marcel charges for the master bedroom. As he dashes into the bathroom, he swings the door, giving himself some privacy as I hear him empty his stomach.

At the sound, my own mouth contorts as my hand flattens against my well-intact belly. "Okay, you know what," I clear my throat as I fan myself. "I'm staying the night."

In his bed, I wait about 10 minutes as Marcel cleans himself up. As the light goes out in the bathroom, the door parts and Marcel steps out with a glossy stupor in his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Curls." I apologize for making him eat. "With something as light as tea and toast, I thought that was okay. I thought you would regain your strength a bit." 

I didn't want him taking medicine on an empty stomach. Maybe I should have just left him alone.

Scratching the side of his head, Marcel comes to the side of the bed. Crawling past me to lay down, he leaves a refreshing trail of spearmint. 

"So this is how it ends..." He tugs the blanket to pull up his frame, but unfortunately, I'm sitting on it. I rise off the bed as he slides under the cover. Sighing, he sinks back into the pillow, laying his forearm across his forehead.

"I'm sorry."

"I can't blame you for trying to make me feel better. 'ave a bug... This happens. Not your fault."

"Is there anything I can do?" I stand by the side of his bed, not wanting to crawl in and risk making him queasier.

Running his hands over his itchy orbs, his hooded eyes fall on me on their way to shutting. Dammit. Tucking my hands into my back pockets, I try to puzzle together ways to help him feel better.

"Just stay with me." He breathes. 

Marcel's eyes open, gaping upward to the ceiling before wafting out the window. I feel a pang in my heart after hearing the request in 3 different capacities. Pulling my lips into my silenced mouth, my eyes take their own journey outside – noting how the white panels frame golden-hour. 

"Come here."

I cautiously make my way under the cover that he pulls back for me.

The hell are these, Egyptian sheets? Is this comforter a down? White, satin pillowcases? Maybe in a different context from Marcel's, I could lay in this bed for days and not reach out to anyone.

Marcel scoots down the bed. Figuring he's searching for the remote, I'm taken aback as he waits for me to settle so he can lay his head on my stomach. One of his arms stretches over my midsection, knuckles barely grazing my ribs as he finds his leisure.

It takes every ounce of energy for me to steady the combination of my slingshotting heart and erratic butterflies. I fail.

Taking his attention elsewhere, Marcel picks at the cotton material of my top before rubbing it between his fingers. There's no doubt in my mind that he's accounting each component of this moment. We're running out of them with each passing second. Closing his eyes, he registers this one with a diminishing breath.