Good. She was not there. He hated to think she'd fallen asleep on the couch or on the floor.
He proceeded down the hall to her-no, their room-and smiled as he saw that she was blessedly asleep. He was truly sorry that she'd caught his cold, but a good night's sleep had helped him immeasurably and now he was here to watch over her, to make sure she recovered quickly too.
Gently, he sat at the edge of the bed and brushed an unruly wisp of hair off her forehead.
Ever the vigilant cop, she noticed, and her eyes fluttered open.
"You came," she croaked.
"Shh," he soothed, "get some rest."
He immediately shushed the croak that she clearly meant as a protest.
He chuckled. "No, you're staying in bed. You're staying home today."
"It's today?" she rasped. "Late for work?"
"You. Are. Staying. In. Bed."
She sank back into the pillows.
"If you don't, I'm going to permanently implant that earpiece in your ear and I'll always be whispering inappropriate things in your head," he quipped.
She smiled, just a bit, and as his hand tested her forehead, drifted back to sleep as he pulled the coverlet up around her.
He walked to the other side of the bed, and disposed of the discarded tissues, then carried her emptied water bottle to the kitchen. Her comment reminded him that it was a work day, so he sent a quick text message to the office while his tea brewed. He would not be in today, and he hoped that no one else had caught his cold.
After checking one more time on her and placing a refilled water bottle next to her, he and his tea made their way to the living room to continue resting up.
Hours later, he'd continued caring for her, administering Nyquil, helping her to the bathroom, and changing her sweat-soaked t-shirt, and doing his best to let her know that she was loved. Feeling much better, he looked around the house for ways he could help her. Ah, there was still that small set of boxes in her garage-boxes she said she'd planned to donate and recycle. But, she didn't get the chance because she'd been diverted to Miami.
The least he could do was load her car with them.
With a quick glance in each box, he began hauling them over to the trunk.
Box #3 stopped him in his tracks.
Its contents: binders. Wait, maybe she didn't really mean to get rid of these. The top binder seemed work-related. Setting it aside, he finished with the other boxes, and hauled the box full of binders into the living room.
Another cup of tea readied him for the task at hand. The first few binders were all work-related, as he'd surmised. Training seminars she'd taken as part of the CBI. The same for her Washington days-a workshop on small-town policing, how to liaise the community. He set them all aside-he'd double-check with her later, just in case. Then the final binder-it looked like a collection of articles. He quickly rifled through them and noticed that they were filled with notes in her handwriting, and post-its. Some pages were dog-eared.
He froze.
"How to Date a Man Who Is Grieving the Loss of His Wife"
"Red Flags to Watch for When Dating a Widower"
"Widower Responses to the Death of a Wife: Findings"
"Helping a Man Who is Grieving"
He kept flipping through the articles, his heart simultaneously growing heavier and fuller with each article he encountered.
"When should a widow or widower take off their wedding ring..."
"Surviving a Child's Death"
"Can a new baby ever heal the pain of losing a child?"
"Long-Term Effects of the Death of a Child on Parents..."
"How to Overcome Deep Seated Desires for Revenge: 6 Steps"
He couldn't continue. He snapped the binder shut and closed his eyes. Maybe he was still too sick from his cold, too tired from his illness and hers, to look any further.
"Hey..."
He looked up to find her standing before him. She looked down at the binder he still had clasped in his hands.
Every instinct screamed at him to make light of the situation. But then he remembered what she'd said: "...you don't need to wait until I need to know to tell me things, ok? Not anymore."
He took a deep breath. "I found this."
"I woke up; I think I'm feeling better..."
He placed the binder on the coffee table and extended his hand to her, pulling her down to him. "Sorry. The pile in the garage..."
"S'okay," she responded. "Talk about this..." Her head nodded toward the binder. "...Later."
His arms wrapped tighter around her. His ring glittered in the waning afternoon light. Quietly, he slipped it off, pressed a kiss to it, and placed it on the fourth finger of his right hand. It felt like the right thing to do.