I wanted to believe that he would keep his word. I really did. But a nagging little voice told me that he agreed to go to rehab just so he wouldn't have to argue about it anymore for a few days. And I still had to tell myself that there was a very real chance that I would be checking into a hotel again in the near future. Better to be safe than sorry. Like Greg, I've had to learn that lesson the hard way, more than once.

Of course, I didn't say any of that to his face since he hasn't broken his word yet. If Greg hasn't checked into rehab by Saturday I was going to rip him up one side and down the other. I was going to draw blood if it came to that.

For now I was content that he had verbally agreed to do something. That was a milestone as far as I was concerned.

His leg was starting to spasm. He stretched out on the sofa while I got the pillow and heating pad. I was getting ready to settle down in the easy chair, figuring he would want a little extra room for his leg. Nope, not tonight. He gave me a glare that could have melted steel and ordered me to get my sorry ass back over there. After he got comfy, which involved pinning me down with the pillow in my lap, he ordered me not to move until he said it was okay. I complied, how could I not?, and even went so far as to gently stroke the rough stubble along his cheek. Greg sighed in contentment.

That gets him every time. And I love it.

After a few mind-numbingly dull reruns and a documentary about spiders, I glanced down and saw that his eyes were closed. Too early to be asleep and he wasn't, I could tell by his breathing. The television was distracting him so he closed his eyes to focus on whatever was running through his head.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," I observed.

"Is that a bad thing?" Greg asked without opening his eyes.

"Not necessarily. I was just saying–"

"You bitch and moan when I when talk through a show and now you're bitching because I'm not talking through a show. Make up your mind already."

"You've obviously got a lot on your mind..."

"Your powers of perception never fail to amaze me, Jimmy."

"Yeah, I'm a regular wizard in that department," I remarked dryly. "How's the leg?"

"It's fine."

"Any more spasms?"

"No, I just said it's fine."

"Just 'fine'?"

"It can be positively fucking dandy if it'll make you shut up about it," he grumbled, then opened his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. "I just wanna lay here and think for a while. Can I do that without any more interruptions? I've got a lot to think about and not enough time to think about it. Is it too much to ask for you to be quiet for a change?"

"Sorry," I said, and turned back to the television.

"And stop being so fucking sorry about everything," he muttered, then closed his eyes again.

The next two hours passed without a word from either of us. Another documentary about various killer ant species came on and was rather interesting. Greg got up to use the bathroom once, then came back and pretty much picked up where he left off with whatever he was thinking about. The only thing that changed was that he grabbed my hand and wouldn't let me take it back. He held it to his chest and I spent the next half-hour feeling the beat of his heart.

"I want some of your mint ice-cream," he said suddenly, and pulled himself up. It was as if some internal switch had been flipped and he was done with his thinking for the night. It wasn't the first time he had done something like that. His brain must have its own built-in timer for those things.

"Haven't you had enough crap tonight, Greg?"

"No such thing when it comes to ice-cream."

I looked over and gave him my best deadpan stare. "Only if I get some of your chocolate."

"Be my guest."

"Thanks. I better not hear one word about how all your chocolate ice-cream is gone."

"If you don't put some whipped cream and cherries on it, you're going to hear about it all damn night."

"Did you even leave any cherries?"

"There might be one or two left."

I stood up and said, "Don't you even think about crying to me when you get sick and puke your guts out in the middle of night."

"If and when you get sick tonight, I'll remember that," he said with a wry smile. "Be sure to save some whipped cream."

"I bought two cans. We have plenty."

"Good. Be sure to save some."

"What for?"

The wry smile broadened. "In case one or both of us gets in the mood for some real dessert between now and the end of the week."