Chapter 14
14
I died. Yesterday killed me. I never imagined the afterlife would feel so awful. Mostly, because I’m not convinced of the concepts of heaven and hell. I really expected nothingness. In the same way that dark is simply the absence of light. I expected death to be the absence of life. Peaceful, yet not. Pain-free, certainly. No awareness, no consciousness, just…nothing.
I do not feel nothing.
I crack my eyes open to see Peter’s large body sprawled out beside me.
Did I climb into bed with him at some point?
Definitely not dead.
Still questioning everything.
I lick my lips, but the best I manage is to croak, “I have made a critical error.”
Peter rolls his head toward me. “Go on.”
“I did not take the appropriate personal protection precautions when handling you yesterday.” I clear my throat, but it does nothing to ease the pain nor congestion there. “I think I have contracted influenza.”
“Yes,” he says, likely intending to sound serious. Only succeeding in impersonating a duck. “I know. I’m sorry, genius girl.”
I want to cry but find I don’t have the energy for it. “If we die in this bed together, I want the words genius girl written on my tombstone.”
“I’ll send your mother a text,” he promises.
“Thank you.” I drift toward unconsciousness again.
“Wait.” He strokes my cheek with a slightly rough touch. “Before you pass out, I made a list. It’s on the nightstand. It shows who took what at which times.”
“I will text your mother to advise her that your tombstone should have genius guy carved in it.” Even though this is surely what going a single round in a boxing ring must feel like, I fight through the full-body pain to clarify, “I haven’t taken anything.”
“I managed to get Advil and Tamiflu in you before I brought you to bed,” he rasps.
I shake my head against the pillow. “That’s your prescription, not mine. Sharing is dangerous.”
“Tell my mother I want to be buried next to you,” he mumbles, sounding as coherent as I feel. “We can argue about what actually killed us for eternity.”
I have fitful, feverish dreams about spending an eternity with Peter.
Time becomes nebulous, punctuated by bursts of wakefulness only long enough to update the medication list, refill water bottles, and peck out updates to our mothers.
Mine calls immediately when I text that my final wishes are to be buried beside Peter, so that I can torture him for eternity for making me so sick.
She thinks I’m being held hostage against my will, and that was my code for letting her know.
Peter laughs until he can’t breathe. Then, he coughs up his lungs, and he really can’t breathe .
I have no idea what day or time it is as I stare at the television on Peter’s bedroom dresser. I can’t even tell what I’m watching. Something about killer giant squid. Not sure if it’s a documentary or a horror movie.
“Why is this so hot?”
“Fever,” I answer Peter’s mumbled question. Even with Advil, the lowest either of us have been able to achieve is a hundred and two.
Odd that humanity is obsessed with higher numbers meaning higher excellence. This is clearly not always the case.
“No, honey. The show. Why is this sexually arousing? I don’t think it’s supposed to be.”
“Lack of sex for the past year,” I guess. “Even tentacles turn you on now.”
I hear him swallow harshly. It sounds painful. “What turns you on now?”
“I will be the most turned on I’ve ever been in my life if I don’t die. If I ever feel healthy again, I will become a nymphomaniac who gets aroused from germ-free air brushing over my skin.” My words are mostly intelligible even though I’m shivering uncontrollably.
The heat of Peter’s body pulls away from my back. He must be rolling to the other side of the bed. The distinctive sound of paper crinkling indicates he’s checking the medication list.
He sighs before scooting down to a prone position beside me.
He’s been sleeping propped up on pillows while I’ve been down here in the slums of these dirty, dirty sheets.
He wraps his arms around me and hauls my back to his chest. “You’ve got two more hours until you can take anything. I’ll try to keep you warm.”
I press my cheek to the cool, smooth skin of his bicep then stutter, “I think I smell. I think you smell. ”
“We can’t breathe anyway,” he murmurs into the top of my hair. “But yeah. We could probably use a shower.”
My mind paints a very vivid picture of showering with Peter. Past experience proves it’s an enjoyable way to get clean.
“Or a hazmat decontamination process,” he adds.
I cough out a laugh as I continue to shake in his arms. “Give me your leg, too.”
He wraps his heavy leg over my waist. “Better?”
“I wish.”
“I have a proposal to offer you,” he murmurs.
My trembling doesn’t subside even with the weight and warmth of Peter’s body. Despite my wildly ill state, I’m slightly terrified he’s going to propose marriage to me.
He wouldn’t do that, would he? Not while we both stink and are snotty and hacky and all kinds of disgusting.
A vivid, horrifying image of Peter coughing up an engagement ring plays out in my mind.
He bands his arms tighter around me. “If we live through this, then we have to forgive each other.”
“What could you possibly need to forgive me for?” I literally cough out.
He nuzzles his face against the back of my ratty hair. “For leaving me without a reason. Without even a goodbye.” He sniffles, and I just know there’s snot in my hair now that isn’t my own. “For not loving me enough to fight for me. For not loving me as much as I loved you.”
I mean to scoff, but it only sounds like a disconcerting wheeze. “I hate to point out the obvious, but the only reason I left without a word was because I believed you never loved me in the first place. Did you ever consider that I loved you enough to let you have your winnings and live the rest of your life free from the woman you didn’t really want to be with?”
Those words in that order said to this man drive the knife that he plunged into my heart even deeper. The searing pain is so much worse than my aching chest.
He burrows his face deeper into my hair until I feel his nose on the back of my neck. “Okay, okay. Give me a minute to think of a better deal. This is important, but I just need another minute…”
Every word slurs a little more than the last until he’s snoring at my back. I vaguely worry that he’ll suffocate in my hair, and he’ll die before I get to hear his brilliant plan.
This time when I sleep, it’s dreamless and deep.
“Peter,” I whisper on waking. I already know I’m talking to myself. The bed is empty behind me as evidenced by the lack of warmth.
My body feels like I stayed one round more in the ring than I should have, but my teeth aren’t chattering anymore. I don’t remember waking up to take another dose of fever reducer.
After relieving myself in Peter’s bathroom, I check my reflection in the mirror as I thoroughly wash my hands.
I could never recreate this level of horror, not even for Halloween. The walking dead have nothing on me. I’m half Medusa, my hair springing out at odd angles that are disturbingly crunchy given my lack of hairspray usage. I’m also half zombie, shocking dark circles and bags beneath my eyes that are red-rimmed, making my aquamarine irises appear to glow within the sunken sockets.
I’m terrified of myself, and I haven’t had to look at me for the past however many days it’s been.
No wonder Peter fled the bedroom.
I glance longingly at the shower/bathtub combo. That would be a highly illogical choice. Dizziness washes over me in cresting and ebbing waves. The last thing I want is for Peter to find me deceased in his bathroom, naked and drowned in a pool of my own filthy shower water and blood after falling and cracking my skull open on the tub faucet.
With that disturbing image burned into my brain, I shuffle toward the sound of noise in the kitchen.
Peter stands at the stovetop, stirring something.
“Are you dead yet?” he asks with his back to me, his voice still raspy.
“Not yet.” I’m uncertain whether to be grateful or disappointed. I flop down on his couch. If I stay upright for even another second, I’m going to fall and whack my head off his coffee table.
Why am I suddenly obsessed with preserving my own head which I hate so much most of the time? The fever has clearly scrambled my brains. I’m still delirious. I’m also likely dehydrated and weak from lack of eating.
My phone rings from somewhere in the distance. I glance at the coffee table, but it’s empty. I have no idea where my phone is.
Peter rushes past me in a blur of tall, muscular male who’s now completely dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants. When he returns to my side, holding my phone out to me, I finally understand why women love men’s sweatpants.
Even if I didn’t know what this man looks like beneath his clothes, I wouldn’t have to guess. No detail is hidden from sight.
Sweatpants aren’t a men’s fashion choice. They’re the equivalent of turkey plumage. He’s showing off the goods on purpose. I make a mental note to insist that Carly add men’s sweatpants to the list of banned attire at work. Then, I immediately rescind that brilliant plan. If sweatpants leave nothing to the imagination, then maybe I can scan all the men in the department to see who has a flash drive in their pockets. That would be so much easier than sifting through mountains of data trails.
“You missed a Facetime request from Chet,” Peter grinds out .
Ugh. His little spy games are going to have to wait for a few days.
“Is your throat still sore?” I ask Peter as I scroll through the list of missed texts and calls. All from my mother who has now rescinded her earlier assumption that I’m being held against my will in favor of planning my wedding. To Peter.
He nods, that muscle in his jaw ticking.
I stab my screen to call Chet back—without the video option. No one needs to see me right now.
Except Peter apparently. He continues to stare down at me with his hands on his hips as I raise my phone to my ear.
“ Look at me ,” he shouts with his posture that clearly enhances his sweatpants-clad penis. “ See what you’re missing out on! This is grade A man meat, capable of fulfilling your most carnal, animalistic fantasies. Also, my genetic contribution to mating would result in physically attractive, highly intelligent babies. ”
The moment the call connects, Chet says, “Elise. What’s going on? I’ve been trying to reach you for three days.”
I tear my gaze away from Peter’s man meat— Man meat, brain? Seriously ?—and counter Chet’s question with another rhetorical question. “Did you not see the memo from your Paramus branch HR rep? The entire office is in the thick of an influenza outbreak.”
“Yes. I read it.” He sighs, but it sounds like so much static in my clogged ears. “I also spoke with Dr. Carrington earlier. After discussing our options, I’m having the building disinfected and closing operations for ten days per New Jersey Health Department guidance.”
“Thanks.” I mentally do a little quick math. Assuming I’ve been here—delirious out of my mind—for three days, and the office will be closed for a total of ten days, then I have seven more days to recover.
I’m not entirely convinced a full week will be enough. It might take me a month to untangle my hair let alone regain the ability to breathe deeply without coughing so hard that I pull a muscle in my stomach.
“Wait.” Chet’s sharp word doesn’t nearly cut through the fog in my ear. “Are you…are you sick?”
“So fucking sick,” I mumble.
“Shit. This is worse than I realized. You never get sick.”
I glare at the man who’s towering over me, his hands still on his hips. This is all his fault.
I cover my phone with my hand and hiss at him, “Put that thing away!”
He cocks his head back and squints at me. He does not put the thing away.
“Put me on video,” Chet demands. “I need to reassess the situation with real-time evidence from a trusted source.”
Above me, Peter shakes his head wildly.
Fantastic. He’s clearly able to overhear my conversation with Chet.
However, I also agree that I do not want to be on-screen.
“That’s not necessary. You do not want to be blinded by the sight of me. If you need descriptive data, I can tell you with certainty that I resemble a hybrid between Medusa and a zombie.”
“Put this call on video right now,” Chet says, a clear note of warning in his deeply dominant voice. “Or I will be forced to do things I’d rather not do.”
“Are you threatening to fire me because I’m sick and can’t work for a few days?” I gasp, then cough.
Above me, Peter’s expression turns furious. He reaches for my phone. I swat his hand away. He storms into the kitchen.
“No.” Chet grinds out the single syllable. “I’m threatening to drive there and make sure you don’t die because you’re too stubborn to seek medical attention. ”
“I’m not alone,” I insist, attempting to placate his worry. “I’m staying with a friend who’s taking care of me. I would never behave so illogically as to endanger myself by being alone while dangerously ill.”
In the kitchen, Peter smirks as he ladles soup into two bowls.
“Eli.” Chet hardly ever says anything without a demanding tone, so the softness of his voice startles me. “Put me on video. I just want to make sure you’re not in any real danger.”
“Who are you and what have you done with the Chet Goulding I knew?”
He chuckles—another uncharacteristic sound from him. “People change.”
“Not usually,” I rasp.
Peter sets a bowl of steaming soup on the coffee table before sitting beside me with his own bowl. I squint at him suspiciously when he arranges my feet on his lap.
“You have to change a little, too,” Chet insists, that same soft voice adding to the unease that crawls over my body along with all the germs. “You just haven’t found someone worth the effort yet. You had hope for me. I have hope for you, too.”
“I don’t want illogical hope,” I say, staring at Peter’s profile. “I want hard data, collected without any bias.”
Chet laughs. “You’re asking for the impossible. We’re human. We all have bias.”
“Fine then. I demand peer review of hard data to obtain a more balanced interpretation that accurately represents a cross-section of bias.”
I’m acutely aware that I’m having a last-ditch conversation with myself via Chet, where Peter can clearly eavesdrop on my internal struggle.
In short, I’ve lost my mind.
Chet clucks his tongue. Seriously, who is this man? “You’re already changing. You just don’t see it because of your inherent bias. The woman I knew in undergrad was agoraphobic and germophobic. How did you get sick?”
I stare at Peter who’s resumed his giant squid documentary on the living room TV. He licks a stray droplet of soup from his bottom lip. That sight sends a bolt of heat and throbbing between my thighs.
“I—” All the panic I forgot during my feverish delirium rushes back in a tidal wave that threatens to suffocate me. I push through to the surface and inhale a lungful of air that only causes me to cough. “I was tricked into caring for someone who refused to consider how I might be hurt in the process.”
Peter stiffens beside me but says nothing.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Chet spits. “You never do anything without being acutely aware of all the possible outcomes. If you overcame your knowledge of germ-theory and aversion to people long enough to take care of someone else, then you did it knowing damn well what those risks were. And you did it anyway.”
“I should have considered the risks more carefully,” I admit. My stomach swirls with nausea. “I should have collected more data before acting without thinking.”
Peter gazes at me with a softness around his eyes that sends messages to a different part of my body—my stupid heart that should never be trusted to make decisions.
Chet sighs. “Your problem isn’t lack of active thinking. You hold people at arm’s length expecting the same results as past experiments instead of looking at new attempts with a fresh perspective. You’re as biased as the rest of us.”
“Why are you insulting me when I’m already sick?” I whimper.
“Why are you sick?” Chet repeats with emphasis.
My eyelids flicker as I continue to stare at Peter, who watches me carefully .
“I was tricked,” I whisper. Beg, plead, pray to the science gods.
Peter breaches the distance between us to cradle my jaw in his hand, his thumb swiping along the corner of my mouth.
That simple, sensual, gentle touch crumbles the last of my resolve.
“No, you weren’t. You made an informed choice.” Chet jolts me out of my haze. “Rest. Get well. And don’t forget I’m counting on you.”
He ends the call.
“You’ll hurt me again,” I say to Peter.
He shakes his head. And frowns. “Never.”