“I will be. When you leave.” He nods toward my house, letting me know he just wants me out of his way.
He finally wins the battle with his lock. He opens the door, walks inside, and shuts it behind him. And in my face.
I blink at the burgundy, smooth surface in front of my face. Then I blink some more. Nope, still shut. In my face. I guess that’s how he felt when I didn’t let him inside my house. Not a nice feeling. Note to myself: never do that to people again.
I take a deep, calming breath, look up at the sky, and tell myself that grown-ups aren’t supposed to have tantrums, so I will not let myself kick and scream and scratch his beautiful door, even if I want to, very much so.
I’ve tried. The universe knows I’ve tried. I’m not feeling guilty for leaving him alone with his problem anymore. I march home and slam my own door—loudly, nearly taking it off the hinges—but the anger inside me subsides.
I go about my business, fix myself a cup of tea, and sit on the couch with a laptop on my knees.
Perfection. It’s quiet, peaceful, and I’m guilt-free.
But of course, five minutes later, I’m back at the window, pulling the curtain aside. I try to see if I can peep on Mark behind his closed window. To my next surprise, his lights aren’t on, and his blinds aren’t closed, even though it’s dark outside. His windows are illuminated by the streetlight, letting me see Mark’s figure moving about the house, slowly and unsure. It’s so not like him. He’s usually confident in his body, every movement precise, every action measured. This Mark isn’t the Mark I’m used to.
Dang it!
I so don’t need this right now. He didn’t want to talk a moment ago, so why should I bother?
I go back to the couch and pull my laptop over my lap.
And put it right back.
Covering my face with my hands, I groan loudly, remembering his rigid, unsure posture. I’d hate myself if something was wrong with him and I never did anything to help. Even if he didn’t need it. Some people get grumpy when they’re sick. He’s grumpy in general, so I don’t expect him to be any different when he’s unwell.
Plus, let’s not forget about the “dead” body in your backyard, Alicia. You owe him.
I grab a coat, my phone, and my keys and run to his house after locking my door behind me. I'm not sure when I’m coming back. I knock on his door, and I’m met with no response, expectedly. So I knock again. I hear shuffling behind the door. And a whine. A rumble. A loud curse. Only then, the door swings open inward.
Mark stands in his doorframe looking as if he’s been in a brawl with fifty men and lost. He has strands of hair popping out everywhere from his low bun, there’s dark circles under his hooded eyes, and the hollows of his cheeks are more pronounced than ever, like he’s been starved even though he was fine when I saw him just three days ago.
“Mark?” I call, half hoping he’s okay and it’s my imagination playing tricks.
“What do you need, Alicia?” He props himself on the edge of the door.
“You look really bad.” I glance at his feet and back to his face. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Go home.” He tries to close a door on me again, but I press my foot into it. His attention slips to my face. “Just go home. I don’t have energy to fight with you right now.” He tries to put more force into closing the door, but I don’t think he has energy left at all. My foot barely budges.
“I’m not here for a fight. Can I come in?” I make a move to go inside but he steps forward, preventing me from moving farther. I have no idea who this brave woman is, but it’s definitely not me. My body bumps into his, and my hands fly to hold onto something before falling forward. They find support on his shoulders, and he stumbles back.
His very, very hot shoulders. My hand flies to his forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
Now it makes sense. I firmly grab his hand and move it away from the door so I can squeeze in.
“What are you doing?” His voice sounds dry, and now I know why.
“You are sick.” I finally move him out of the way and walk inside. Ghost rushes toward me, nudging my hand for attention. I give him a few rubs and walk to the kitchen. “Where’s your medicine cabinet?”
“In the bathroom,” he answers and slowly walks to the couch where he plants himself, leaning back and closing his eyes.
I ravage through his cabinet, find a thermometer, and run back to him. He’s already asleep.
“Mark,” I call with no luck. “Mark.” I try again, louder. Nothing. I put my knee on the couch and lean toward him. Grabbing his jaw with one hand, I force his mouth open with the other and shove the thermometer inside. I gently help his mouth to close and keep my hand under his chin just in case. The thing starts beeping in seconds. I pull the thermometer out—104.2.Shit!I’ve never seen anyone with fever this high.
I run back to the bathroom and scavenge through his cabinet in search of medicine. Any medicine. He has a bottle of Tylenol and a few aspirin. I grab three Tylenols, run to the kitchen to get water, and rush back to Mark.
