Chapter 17
MYLES
Today has been a long ass Monday. Mickey Dutch was awarded in-school suspension last Friday for flipping a desk in Ms. Dawson’s class, which means the two of us spent today closed up in my office. All. Freaking. Day.
Except for Mickey, I feel like I’m always able to find a way to get through to even the most difficult of the kids here.
No matter how tough they act or how much they pretend they don’t give a shit, all it takes is finding that thing they care about, and then you’ve got an in.
A way to make a connection and show that you see them for more than whatever they’re going through and whatever they’re doing to act out about it.
I firmly believe that no kid is actually bad, which includes Mickey, but after spending seven hours trying to get through to him or even to get something out of him beyond the silent treatment traded off every once in a while with obviously insincere smoke blown up my ass, I am fucking done.
What I’ve really wanted to do all day is drop by Charlie’s room. Today’s the first school day in almost a month and a half that a whole day’s gone by without me seeing him even once.
The level of sulking I’ve sunk to over this is downright ridiculous, especially considering the fact that he spent about half the day with me yesterday, keeping me company and handing me floorboards as I worked my way across the living room, tapping the pieces into place with a mallet.
It’s just that, now that he’s back in my life, I’m greedy. The more time I have with him and the more like old times things feel between us, the more I crave.
That night he came over for dinner and stayed to watch Phantom of the Opera with me was almost a month ago.
Apart from the weekend he went back to Seattle to stay with his parents and visit Gemma, who, by the way, Charlie reports doesn’t completely hate me anymore, we’ve hung out every weekend.
Outside of that, not a week’s gone by without us squeezing in a couple work night dinners each week, trading off between our two houses.
Between the time I’ve been spending with Charlie and the fact that I’ve caved and spent a few evenings with Rachel too (completely platonically, which, it turns out is all she’s interested in as well—thank god) I’m thoroughly behind on my work on Dad’s house.
I have exactly zero regrets over that.
Having Charlie back in my life, our friendship well on track to becoming as close as it ever was, is everything I’ve spent the last decade wanting. Even with all the time we’re spending together though, it manages to be not nearly enough for my greedy need for him.
Which is why, the moment Mickey is on his way to his bus, I’m on my way to Charlie’s room.
I’m being fucking irrational. At least I’m fully aware of it. Still doesn’t do a thing to change the fact that I’m resolutely cranking my wheel to make the sharp turn into Charlie’s driveway, rationality and boundaries be damned.
Charlie wasn’t in his classroom when I’d poked my head in. In his place at his desk was a curly haired woman I recognized by sight as one of the school’s regular substitutes.
I can’t pretend like I’m a normal person and didn’t freak out inside at the question of where Charlie was and why exactly he needed a sub. I also can’t pretend like I didn’t feel a weird flash of something like hurt mixed with worry that he hadn’t texted me to tell me he was out today.
“He’s home sick,” Mrs. What’s Her Name told me, when I’d asked.
“And he must be feeling pretty bad because the secretary’s already booked me for tomorrow too.
There’s definitely something going around.
One girl left halfway through math this morning for the nurse.
Another one was coughing so much, I had to send her during fifth period, even though she said she was fine. ”
It’s possible the woman had more to say, but I’m not sure because I’d already been out the door, pulling out my phone to call Charlie. The call rang all the way through before his voicemail picked up.
Which is why I’m here now. Feeling like I’m probably the world’s biggest asshole, about to wake him up from a nap or something, just because I can’t shake the worry that he might not be okay.
It takes three rounds of knocking before I hear footsteps behind the door.
Which means he probably was asleep…which means I am an asshole.
Or that he’s feeling too sick to have wanted to get up, which means I’m an even bigger asshole, but was still completely right to come and check on him. Because why didn’t he just answer his damn phone?
My stomach’s tied up in knots by the time the door opens. And then those knots just cinch tighter.
“You look like shit,” are the words that leap out of my mouth. Yup. Absolute asshole.
Especially because it’s not true.
Don’t get me wrong, he looks sick. White as a sheet, except for how red his nose and the skin below it is. Dark circles under his eyes, and there’s this unhealthy looking, sweaty sheen all over his face.
But really, I just want to stare at him for freaking ever, and there’s no keeping a completely inappropriate grin off my face, because he’s wearing glasses.
They’re not exactly the same as the ones he wore when we were kids, but the nostalgia of seeing him with them on hits me squarely in the chest, making it hard to breathe for a second.
Before I can think, I’m taking a step forward, but he holds up a hand, taking a shaky step backward from me. “Don’t come near me!”
Or at least, I think that’s what he’s telling me. His voice is hoarse and croaky, and halfway through, whatever words he’d been trying to get out are lost in a cough he covers with his elbow.
That cough resets my brain, snapping me back to the reality that yes, I do need to stay away from him unless I want to end up in the exact same state.
Good thing too, because the moment I’d registered those glasses, every thought in my head had short circuited, and I’d been about to pull him into a hug, germs, sweaty purple pj’s, and all.
“Point taken.” I hold up my hands in a show of surrender, taking a step back myself, even though there’s a weird, illogical part of me that honestly doesn’t care.
That part of me wants to just push right through the door, grab him by the hand, march him to bed, and stay here and take care of him until he’s better, consequences and germs be damned.
If he wasn’t on his feet and obviously well enough to take care of himself, I’d do it.
It takes a few seconds for his coughing to calm down. You’d think that would be enough time for me to get my head on straight and not blurt out any more stupid crap, but apparently not. “Why didn’t you text me?”
“Didn’t want to bug you.”
“Three things, Charlie.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“First of all, don’t talk anymore.” From how he looked and sounded just now, I can tell it hurts him to talk.
“Second, go sit.” I point through the doorway at his couch.
“You’ll be able to hear me just fine from there.
Third, if this ever happens again while we’re both still here, you text me, okay?
You’re my—” I choke back the word person.
“—friend. You think I’m okay knowing you were here like this all day, and no one knew? ”
“I’m fine,” he mumbles, flopping onto the sofa as he at least follows my first direction. “The secretary knew.”
“I said no talking. And no, you’re not fine. And Marybeth knowing doesn’t count. I meant no one who would come check on you knew.”
He gives me a limp shrug.
“Do you need to go to the doctors?”
Silently, he shakes his head before leaning back against the corner of the couch and pulling a throw blanket over himself.
“How about food? Do you have soup or anything like that? Cough drops? Tea? Juice?”
He nods, but I’m not sure I believe him. My suspicions are verified when the next second, he follows up with a shake of his head. “Cyril’s almost out of food. I was going to go today after work, but—”
“I’ll go grab him some,” I cut him off, refusing to let him keep making himself talk. “Are you sure there’s nothing you need?”
He shakes his head again.
Whatever. If he wants to do this the hard way, then we can do this the hard way. Instead of getting him just the things he actually needs, I’ll go through the entire damn store and buy him literally anything that he might possibly want.