Summer's face is a storm cloud on our living room couch, her lips pressed into a thin line that telegraphs pain more clearly than any scream could. The angry red skin around her tattoos has darkened since this morning, turning the flesh surrounding each treated area into an angry crimson landscape.
"Don't move," I tell her, hurrying to the kitchen with a strange mix of guilt and tenderness swirling in my chest.
I grab a clean dish towel from the drawer and wrap it carefully around the ice pack I pulled from the freezer. The fabric is soft against my fingers as I fold it with more precision than necessary, trying to make it perfect. Like, somehow the neatness of my wrapping job could translate to better pain relief for Summer.
When I return to the living room, she's exactly where I left her, sprawled across our couch in that black tube top that leaves her treated skin exposed to the air. Her eyes follow me, narrowed with discomfort but watchful, always watchful.
"This should help with the swelling," I say, perching carefully on the edge of the couch beside her.
I lower the wrapped ice pack toward her chest with the same caution I'd use handling a live grenade. Summer's breathing changes as I approach the first treated spade, becoming shallow and quick. I hesitate, meeting her gaze.
"Why do you look so mad?" I ask, still holding the ice pack inches from her skin.
Summer's face hardens, her jaw clenching visibly. "Because I'm supposed to be taking care of you, not the other way around," she snaps, wincing as she shifts position. "If I'm out of commission over something that's going to happen once every two months, you're going to leave me because I'm valueless to you."
The absurdity of her statement hits me so suddenly that I can't help the small laugh that escapes my lips.
Her head jerks up, eyes flashing dangerously. "This isn't fucking funny, Scott," she hisses, her voice dropping to that low, menacing register that always makes my skin prickle. "If you leave me, I'll actually kill you."
I pay her words no mind, having heard variations of this threat since her return. Instead, I gently press the ice pack against the first treated area, watching her face contort briefly before relaxing into relief.
"Put your head down," I instruct softly, guiding her back against the pillow.
There's something almost endearing about her like this, fierce and vulnerable all at once, like a wounded animal still trying to appear dangerous.
"You spent years of your life taking care of me, Summer," I remind her, carefully moving the ice pack to the next angry red patch. "Let me help you, okay? I can even cook us dinner."
Her eyes search my face, looking for mockery, but finding none, her expression softens incrementally.
"This is my fault anyway," I continue, guilt twisting in my chest. "I asked you to do this."
Summer's fingers find mine, squeezing weakly. "I wanted to do it," she insists, her voice smaller now. "I needed to."
I nod, understanding the strange penance she's determined to pay. We sit in silence for a moment as I continue to ice her treated areas, one by one. The intimacy of the moment strikes me. How many times had she done similar things for me during my worst days? Cleaned me, comforted me, cared for me when I couldn't care for myself?
"What are you going to cook?" she asks finally, her voice tentative, like she's afraid to accept this role reversal.
"I was thinking pasta," I reply, relieved at the change in subject. "Nothing fancy, but I can manage not to burn spaghetti."
Summer's lips twist into a mocking smirk. "You? Cooking pasta?" She lets out a sharp laugh that ends in a wince as the movement disturbs her tender skin. "Sorry, but you're a disaster in the kitchen."
I arch an eyebrow at her. "What, you don't want to try your husband's cooking?"
Something shifts in her expression, a crack in her usual confidence. Her eyes drop to where my hand still holds the ice pack against her skin.
"Well, I do, but..." she mumbles, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant. "You're just... not very good at it, Scott."
I move the ice pack to another angry red patch on her chest. "I promise you I've gotten better in the last year," I tell her with the confidence of an Ox. I've made exactly zero progress in the culinary arts. If anything, my skills have deteriorated further from disuse, my diet consisting mainly of takeout and microwave meals during her absence.
Summer studies my face for a moment, like she's weighing whether to believe me. Then her lips curve into a genuine smile, the kind that reaches her eyes and makes my heart skip a beat.
"Fine," she says softly. "I'll try it."
The eagerness in her voice catches me off guard. She looks almost childishly excited at the prospect of eating whatever mediocre meal I can cobble together.
"Great," I say, setting the ice pack down. "I should get started then. You need anything else before I head to the kitchen?"
Summer shakes her head, then gestures to the remote on the coffee table. "Maybe just put on a movie for me?"
I grab the remote and hand it to her, our fingers brushing in a way that sends a familiar jolt through my system. Even after everything, my body still responds to her touch like it's hardwired to do so.
I leave Summer settled on the couch with Netflix scrolling on the screen while I retreat to the kitchen, determined to prove I can handle this simple task. My culinary confidence quickly evaporates as I stare into the pantry. The pasta part seems straightforward enough, but what about sauce? Meatballs? Garlic bread?
*****
An hour later, I've managed to create something that resembles a meal rather than a disaster. The pasta is slightly overdone, the jarred sauce heated with extra garlic and herbs to disguise its store-bought origins, and the garlic bread is only slightly burned around the edges. I'm actually proud of myself.
I carefully arrange everything on two plates, adding a sprig of parsley from the fridge for presentation. The dining table is already set. I'd managed that much between stirring the pasta and rescuing the bread from complete incineration.
"Dinner's ready," I call, listening for Summer's response.
She appears in the kitchen, moving gingerly with her arms held slightly away from her body to avoid brushing against the treated areas. Despite her discomfort, she looks better than she did earlier, some color returning to her cheeks.
I pull out her chair, helping her settle at the table before placing her plate in front of her. The steam rises from the pasta, carrying the scent of garlic and tomato through the air. I circle the table and sit across from her, setting down my own plate with a small flourish.
"Dig in," I say, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel about her verdict.
Summer picks up her fork and twirls a few strands of pasta around it, bringing it to her lips with a hesitancy that makes my stomach clench with anxiety. But as soon as the first bite touches her tongue, something extraordinary happens.
Her entire demeanor transforms. She begins devouring the pasta like she's been starving for weeks, shoveling forkful after forkful into her mouth with an urgency that's almost alarming. Her eyes widen with what looks like ecstasy, her movements becoming frantic and desperate.
"Whoa, slow down," I laugh nervously. "Do you like it that much?"
At my question, Summer freezes mid-bite, her fork suspended in the air. Tears suddenly well up in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks in glistening tracks.
"Scott," she says, her voice breaking, "this is the worst pasta I've ever had in my entire life."
Before I can process this brutal assessment, she's back to eating, somehow moving even faster than before, tears streaming freely down her face as she continues to devour what she just declared inedible.
Confused, I take my first bite and immediately understand. The sauce is an abomination, somehow simultaneously bland and overpowering, with a strange metallic aftertaste that lingers unpleasantly on my tongue. Whatever combination of spices I added has transformed a perfectly acceptable jarred sauce into something that should probably be classified as a war crime.
"Jesus," I mutter, staring down at my plate in horror. "That's... really bad."
Summer nods vigorously, her mouth still full, tears continuing to fall as she shovels in another massive forkful. Her shoulders shake with what might be sobs, but she doesn't slow down for a second.
"Hey, Summer, you don't have to eat that," I say gently, reaching across to touch her wrist. "I can just order us a pizza or something."
Her reaction is immediate and startling. She jerks her arm away, clutching her plate protectively against her chest like I might try to take it from her.
"No!" she cries, the single syllable sharp with panic. Her eyes, red-rimmed and wet, fix on me with an intensity that makes me recoil slightly. "Don't you dare."
"But you said it's terrible," I argue, bewildered by her reaction.
She swallows hard, wiping at her tears with the back of her hand. "It is," she confirms, her voice thick. "But you made it for me."
There's something in her expression that breaks my heart, a desperate kind of devotion that feels both touching and deeply disturbing. She takes another bite, wincing visibly as she chews, more tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Summer, seriously," I try again, "you're literally crying while eating it because it tastes so bad."
Summer shakes her head fiercely, her mascara streaking down her cheeks as she stabs at another forkful of my culinary disaster.
"I'm crying because," she says between gulps, her voice cracking, "despite how absolutely fucking vile this tastes, you tried so hard to make something for me." She takes another bite, grimacing as she forces it down. "So I'm going to finish every last bite."
I stare at her in disbelief. There's something both touching and deeply unsettling about watching her suffer through this meal out of some twisted sense of loyalty.
"Summer, that's crazy," I say, reaching for her plate again. "You don't have to…"
She yanks the plate away so violently that sauce spatters across the table. "Don't!" Her eyes flash with that dangerous intensity I've come to recognize. "This is important to me."
I sit back, hands raised in surrender. "At least drink some water between bites."
Summer nods, taking a long swig from her glass before diving back into the pasta with renewed determination. I watch her, torn between admiration for her commitment and concern for her mental state.
"You know," I say carefully, "normal people would just order takeout when their spouse cooks something inedible."
Summer smiles faintly through her tears, a bizarre expression given she's still forcing down another mouthful of my culinary disaster.
"Cool," she says simply, then immediately shovels her last bite in her mouth.
"I guess I'll just have cereal for dinner then," I announce, pushing my untouched plate away.
I stand and grab her empty plate, and as I reach for mine, Summer's hand shoots out with surprising speed. She drags my full portion across the table toward herself, staking claim to the food I was about to dispose of.
"Summer, you're going to get sick," I warn, eyeing her with growing concern. "That sauce is genuinely awful."
"I don't think I will," she responds, though uncertainty flickers across her face as she stares down at the second helping of pasta.
"This is too much, no matter how you cut it," I insist, reaching for the plate again.
Her fingers tighten around the edge, knuckles whitening. "If I get sick, I get sick."