Chapter 13
13
Even with my office door closed, a cacophony of coughing and sneezing and other illness-related noises distracts me to the point of wanting to tear my hair out. Actually, that would be hasty. I stare at the cup of pencils and pens on my desk. Perforating my eardrums would be much more effective.
When Oscar moans, “Oh, the humanity!” in a loud, scratchy voice, I’ve had enough.
I push back from my desk and stride toward the breakroom where I keep a stash of zinc lozenges and a box of tea.
Winter in the northeast is no laughing matter. The human inhabitants of this unforgiving land must navigate deep snow, bone-chilling temperatures, and a plethora of viruses for months on end. Truly, humans who live in these temperate regions should have evolved to hibernate.
I fill the kettle that I purchased for office use with water, then put it on the hot plate that I also bought for my home away from home. I actually spend more time here than in my apartment, so I want it to be comfortable.
While I wait for the water to boil, I walk back into the main cubicle room .
I place a zinc lozenge on Oscar’s desk. “I think you should leave early before you infect the entire office. Use your sick days. This is what they’re for.”
I’ll enlist Carly’s HR expertise if I must. Surely, there’s a rule in the employee handbook to enforce not making the rest of us sick.
Oscar pops the lozenge into his mouth then mumbles, “I can’t leave. I’m the only one left.”
I glance around to discover empty desks. “Everyone else is sick, too? Even Peter left early?”
Oscar stares at me like I’m the idiot who doesn’t understand basic germ theory. “Peter hasn’t been here in two days.”
“Really?”
Oscar nods and continues to stare at me in a suspicious manner.
“Oh. Well, uh, I’ve been, um, very busy. I come in early and close my office door, and I work late. My cat is angry with me because I forgot to feed him twice this week, so I must not have noticed.”
Oscar’s continued skepticism is more proof that I do not lie well.
In truth, I’ve been avoiding Peter since our informative dinner.
Very mature, I know.
In my defense, he was absolutely right. I wasn’t ready for an engagement ring. I was just trying to survive my PhD program. Also in my defense, I did not know he was considering engagement. Honestly, the first time we slept together, I viewed it as a sexual experience and nothing more. I didn’t expect him to continue being interested in me beyond continuing to sleep together. And mostly cohabitating even though we absolutely maintained separate apartments .
The point is, I had no idea how deep his feelings for me ran.
Do I want to renew a relationship with Peter? I…don’t know.
It’s complicated.
“I’ll bring you some tea,” I promise Oscar.
“Bless you,” he says before sneezing into a tissue.
I sigh. At least he used a tissue. I bless him back as is the socially appropriate response to a sneeze.
He doesn’t resist when I shoo him out of the office at exactly five o’clock. I switch over all the phones to the weekend voice mail and power down computers that have been left running. I shut off the lights, close and lock all the private office doors, and check in with a few of the other departments on my way to the parking lot. Carly’s out. Maeve’s been gone for three days. Even the marketing department hasn’t been spared.
I sit in my car as I wait for the engine to warm up, staring at the spare key Peter gave me after our dinner that was more shocking than I could have possibly imagined. And I have a very vivid imagination.
“In case of emergency,” he’d insisted, pressing the cool metal into my palm then folding my fingers over it. “Whatever happened between us in the past, I want you to understand that you can come to me if you need help.”
He wouldn’t indulge my protests, instead responding with logic that I couldn’t refute.
“You’re in a new city, and you don’t know anyone very well yet. If your apartment floods, would you rather crash with Carly and her fiancé, or would you be more comfortable with me?”
As I punch his address into my phone’s map then follow directions, I tell myself this is a logical choice. Peter would never take two days off unless it was dire. To be even more rational, it’s also an excellent opportunity to search his residence for proof.
I don’t need help right now, but he might.
“Hi, honey.” He smiles though his eyes are bleary, his voice weak and scratchy. The smile falls to a frown just as quickly. “I feel awful.”
“Peter, you’re burning up. When’s the last time you took something?”
He blinks at me from the burrow he’s created for himself in his bed. “I have no idea what day it is.”
I can’t find it in myself to be annoyed with his lack of concern for his own welfare. I’m just glad I threw caution to the wind with my decision to come here. “Where do you keep your thermometer and medications?”
A congested snore is his only response.
This is not the first time that I’ve been curious about Peter’s life after me. I allowed myself exactly twenty-four hours after discovering his betrayal to imagine what his life would be like going forward. I never thought I’d get the chance to find out.
Unfortunately, my burning need will have to wait.
The kitchen is clean and bright, with white cabinets, stainless steel appliances and uncluttered granite countertops. He has a toaster and a coffee pot. Nothing fancy. Nothing frivolous. I go through the cupboards, finding neatly stacked white dishes with matching mugs that resemble the bland offerings of an extended stay hotel.
I do not find a single bottle of acetaminophen or ibuprofen.
The kitchen opens up into a modest living room, also simply furnished with a full-size couch, a coffee table, and two armchairs. A flat-screen TV is mounted on the opposite wall. I bypass this room for the hallway that leads to Peter’s bedroom, a spare room that’s been converted into a home office, and a bathroom.
The large mirror above the vanity opens to reveal the paltry contents of Peter’s medicine cabinet along with his toiletries. Resisting the urge to huff his cologne, I grab the bottle of Advil.
It’s empty.
Great. At least I find a thermometer.
As I’m walking back to his bedroom, my phone vibrates in the pocket of my slacks. A text from Carly appears on the screen.
Carly Harrison, HR: Influenza outbreak at Chester Paramus. If you are experiencing symptoms, please get tested and seek medical treatment as soon as possible. Do not return to the office if you have tested positive and/or are continuing to experience symptoms. More to follow when I can think again. Thank you.
Oh, wow. This is a more serious situation than I initially assumed.
I march into Peter’s warm and cozy bedroom with renewed purpose.
Trying to tug him into a sitting position is like trying to budge a pallet of platinum. Not going to happen without a forklift.
“Hey.” I stroke cheek until his eyelids flutter though his gaze is glassy and unfocused on me. “Let’s take your temperature, then I think I should take you to urgent care.”
“Eli?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
His hand lands on my cheek after several uncoordinated attempts. Even his palm feels searingly hot. “Why are you here?”
“Because you need me to be.” I sneak the thermometer into his mouth.
“How did you get in? ”
“With the spare key you gave me,” I answer then tap his nose. “No more talking until you hear the beep.”
He nods. His hand falls away.
“Most of the office is out sick as of this afternoon,” I explain as we wait for a readout. “Carly sent a building-wide text advising this is a flu outbreak. Have you seen a doctor yet?”
He shakes his head.
The thermometer beeps.
One hundred and three point four degrees Fahrenheit.
Not good. Adult male humans—even at the peak of physical health—should not be this hot. Temperature-wise, not attractiveness-wise.
“Okay,” I grunt, attempting to pull him into a sitting position again. Even with panic causing an adrenaline rush through my body, I’m not strong enough. “We need to go to the ER. You have to help me, help you. You’re too heavy.”
“You love my muscles,” he mumbles before his eyelids slip closed again.
I slap his cheek. Just a little. “Hey! Hey, Peter! I do love your muscles. I adore them. I rather love your big brain, too, so come on. Get up! All your best parts will waste away if you die from an uncontrolled fever!”
His eyes pop open and he rolls his head back and forth with wild movements. “Holy shit. Am I dead?” His eyes narrow when he manages to focus on me. “Is this heaven or hell?”
I don’t have time to deal with his delirium.
With gargantuan effort that I have never put into my own physical development—horrible time to decide maybe I should work out more regularly, or at all—I yank off the blankets then drag his body forward until his legs hang over the bed.
For a guy who trembles like his bare skin is being exposed to Arctic air, I would think he’d be bundled up under the covers.
No such luck .
He’s wearing nothing but wrinkled navy-blue boxer briefs that ride so dangerously high, I’m genuinely shocked that he’s not leaping out of bed from the wedgie he surely has.
I open and close the drawers of his bureau in a hurry instead of carefully perusing and mentally making a very personal inventory of his clothes. Or looking for hidden flash drives.
I’m sweating like I’ve run a marathon by the time I manage to work a pair of sweatpants up his legs.
Tears spring into my eyes. Maybe sweat. Probably both.
I’ve only gotten the waistband as high as his crotch. He won’t cooperate enough to lift his hips, so I can pull them on fully.
“Ohhhhh.” He stares at my hands near his groin with feverish, half-lidded eyes. His gravelly, deep voice grates against my skin, producing an entirely different sensation than my body associates with him—fear. “A little higher, honey. Just a little higher, then I’ll be in heaven.”
I snap my fingers in front of his face, seconds from completely snapping.
“Hey!” I shout at him. “I swear to Einstein, if you don’t get up and get dressed right now, I will remove your penis from your body, and you really will never have sex again.”
His eyes widen even though they don’t focus.
Shit. He’s so sick. This isn’t his fault. If these are the last words we ever exchange, I don’t want them to be filled with anger. I don’t want to have more regrets added to my growing list.
I cradle his head against my chest and croon, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Peter. Please. Please. You have to help me. I’m not strong enough.”
“Sssh, sweetheart, no,” he mumbles against the skin of my neck. “Don’t cry. I can take anything but that.”
I am crying, and I don’t care. Emotions bring me nothing but trouble, however fear can be quite productive if channeled effectively. It’s the entire reason humans are born with an innate fight or flight reflex.
“Peter,” I say loudly against his burning forehead. “Either you get up and help me dress you to go to the ER, or I’m calling 911.”
“Shit.” He pushes me away to stand. He sways a bit, but he manages to pull his pants on fully. “Am I that bad?” He glances down at his arms and legs in a daze, wiggling his fingers. “I don’t see any blood.”
I rush to grab a shirt out of the dresser then tug it over his head. “You have a very dangerous fever. Do you think you can walk?”
“Sure.” He nods, then sits down on the edge of the bed.
Fuck it. I should call for an ambulance right now instead of wasting more time.
He reaches for me with a grabbing gesture. “Socks. Shoes. Coat. Phone. Wallet. Good to go.”
“Right.” I nod, dashing around to retrieve the necessary items. He manages everything except tying his own shoes, so I drop to my knees and do that for him.
By the time we’re walking out the door, he’s using me like a human crutch. At least we’re moving in the right direction.
By the time we arrive at the hospital, it’s clear that calling 911 wouldn’t have mattered. The ER waiting room is crowded beyond capacity by people in similar states. Peter falls asleep on my shoulder as the hours tick by.
By the time he’s diagnosed as influenza positive, given an IV drip to rehydrate, a slew of prescriptions to be filled at the pharmacy, and discharged due to a lack of bed space, my adrenaline begins to crash.
I manage to power through long enough to have the foresight to get his prescriptions filled at the hospital pharmacy since nothing else will be open in the middle of the night. I deposit Peter back in his own bed, force him to take the first round of meds, then collapse on his couch.
I tell myself I’m only staying, so I can thoroughly search Peter’s apartment tomorrow. It has nothing to do with needing him to be okay.