vague references to plots for this week, namely the first preview clip.
Leslie never thought of herself as a great caretaker. She can’t make soup. She can never remember which over the counter medication does what. She has never had to take care of someone with the flu, let alone food poisoning.
Still, her brand of organized chaos has solved bigger problems before, and as soon as Ben’s symptoms get worse, she starts to think of solutions.
She may have gone a bit overboard.
“Ben?” Leslie asks as she hauls in the groceries.
A weak voice answers, “Living room.”
When she left, he was throwing up again, so the couch is an improvement, even if he’s curled up in a pale, shivering ball under three blankets. He lifts his head when she sits down on the coffee table but quickly drops it again, her poor, sick fiancé.
“Okay,” Leslie says, “I’ve got Gatorade, crackers, chicken broth, chicken soup, both Campbells and this fancy homemade brand, waffle batter…” Ben groans, and Leslie shakes her head. “Right, no. That’s for me, along with the oatmeal pies. Um… I also grabbed some bread for toast, peppermint tea, and Ann told me to get activated charcoal, but I think that makes you throw up. Or is that Ipecac? Either way, I got both of those. And some Sprite.” Leaning forward, Leslie cups his cheek. “What can I do to help?”
“Sit with me?” he asks.
She raises her eyebrows. “Really? Yeah, sure. Of course.”
It takes a few seconds but soon Ben sits up enough that Leslie can slide onto the couch. He rests his head on her leg and hums when she starts combing her fingers through his hair. He’s kind of gross and sweaty, but he likes when she does this, so she keeps going.
After a while, Ben sighs. “I hate that caterer.”
The rebuttal pops into her head, that Danny has never steered her wrong in the past and he’s catered a number of functions for her at a discount over the years, but she holds her tongue. “Me, too,” she says, and Ben pulls an arm to his chest, resting his hand on her knee.
“Sorry I’m dying before our wedding,” he mumbles. “Didn’t mean to.”
Leslie chuckles, kissing the side of his head. “I know you didn’t.”
“Can I have some water?”
By the time Leslie gets back from the kitchen with a glass, Ben’s asleep. She grabs her laptop and settles down on the other end of the couch, stopping every few minutes to check on him. When Ben stretches his legs out in sleep, she adjusts the blankets. When he stirs, she hands him some water and rubs his legs.
"Thanks, hon," he murmurs, nuzzling back into his pillow.
Leslie never thought of herself as a great caretaker, but she can take care of him.
She smiles to herself and gets back to work.