7. Rabies on My Mind #2
“It’s a true crime podcast, isn’t it?” He ignores my question. “That’s why you got scared. You’re obsessed with me and my murder cottage.”
If possible, my blush reaches higher. I swear, I feel it singeing the roots of my hair.
“It’s a podcast about a court case,” I say, knowing full well I sound defensive. I’m not lying. It is about a court case. An ongoing one that just so happens to be for a murderer. “Why are you out of bed? You look...”
He looks less feverish, his eyes more focused.
But he also doesn’t quite seem like himself.
I can’t pinpoint exactly why that is. Maybe it’s the light in his eyes, the trace of amusement that’s so un-Wyatt.
I catch myself staring and look down, only to realize I’m still clutching a pile of his laundry to my chest. Including his underwear.
I shove it into the washer and slam the door.
When I turn back, there is the barest hint of a smile on his face.
Even sick and unwashed, the man could be the face of just about any brand campaign.
In fact, I think he had this exact expression on the boxer briefs ad he did a few years ago.
I remember tossing the magazine across the room, feeling like I’d actually walked in on him like that.
There’s something completely disconcerting about seeing the face of a person you actually know in an advertisement. Especially when they’re wearing a lot of body oil but not a lot of clothing.
Even so, that wasn’t as uncomfortable as the time I went to Atlanta for a school nurse conference and saw Wyatt’s face was on a larger-than-life-size advertisement on the MARTA platform.
Some fellow nurses and I were waiting for the train to take us from our hotel area to a shopping mall after the day’s sessions.
I happened to casually turn around... and then screamed.
Because Wyatt’s giant, attractive, familiar face—and not so familiar but just as giant and attractive bare chest—were right there in black and white.
It was an ad for a watch, and he wore only a watch, the photo stopping near his hips.
He stared out with the kind of eyes that follow you, his hand with the watch casually resting on his opposite shoulder.
My fellow teachers all laughed and catcalled once they realized I hadn’t screamed because I was in danger.
Then they made me take pictures of them leaning up against the ad. One of the youngest, who I think had been hitting the minibar hard beforehand, pretended to lick his abs, which made me distinctly uncomfortable for a lot of reasons.
I refused to be in a picture.
I also refused to tell them I knew the man in the image, that he’d given me that same glower in person, and it was every bit as potent. Even with a shirt on.
Even if I’ve never admitted out loud—and rarely admit to myself—that the man I share a mutual dislike with is also a man I find highly attractive.
It’s not attrac tion . Wyatt simply is attractive.
At least, until you get to know his personality.
But I’m not sure any of the other women I was at the MARTA station with would give a hoot about his personality.
“I feel better,” he says.
“Good.” I grab the first of several full trash bags sitting on the floor. There’s a puddle of goo oozing out from the bottom. I try not to think about what said goo consists of. “Where does the trash go? I didn’t see trash cans outside anywhere.”
“You don’t need to—”
“Wyatt. Don’t make me keep standing here while this leaks more toxic waste onto the floor. Tell me where the trash cans are.”
With a heaving, dramatic sigh, his tiny smile totally gone, Wyatt points one crutch toward the back door. “In the garage,” he says, and I take this to mean the building I saw earlier next to where the Bronco was parked. “But...” He trails off and doesn’t finish.
I pause with the back door open, holding the gross, goopy bag over the back steps leading out of the kitchen. “But what?”
“There’s no trash service here.”
I blink at him. “What does that mean?”
“It has to be driven to the dump,” he says. “Eventually.”
Wonderful. One more delightful thing I can add to my ever-growing résumé: trash woman.
As I walk to the garage, I imagine emailing an itemized list of charges for my brother. I could have it notarized. I picture him pulling out a paper that unfurls and stretches halfway across the room. That would be highly satisfying.
The garage’s two large doors swing open with loud groans. The gray paint on the wood siding is chipping away.
Inside, it’s dark, musty, and oppressively hot. I ignore the sound of something scurrying away. Yikes.
“Hello,” I call loudly. “Warning! Scary human approaching. Please disperse!”
More shu?ing noises at the back of the building, behind what looks like a car with a big tarp over it.
I quickly locate two metal cans and deposit the bag inside one, making a final trip to the kitchen for the last two bags, which thankfully are not leaking toxic ooze. Wyatt tries to argue me out of it. This time I don’t even answer him.
The garage is silent the second time I enter it. Hopefully, whatever was here will not return.
Wyatt is still standing in the doorway when I get back to the kitchen. I grab a handful of paper towels to clean the sludge from the floor. “I think you have a creature living in your garage. Know anything about that?”
“No,” he says. “What kind of creature?”
“I didn’t see it, just heard it scurrying around.”
“Probably a rat,” he says. “Maybe a raccoon, though if it’s out in the day, it could have rabies.”
Fabulous. Rabies is just the thing I want on my mind.
“Don’t worry, though. I won’t let it hurt you.” The small smile is back on his face, and I have to turn away because it’s glorious and does weird things to my insides.
I focus on breathing through my mouth as I clean the floor.
Once that’s done, I move to the table. I already bagged the empty takeout containers, but that still leaves the table full of papers and rolled-up blueprints.
All the while I ignore Wyatt, who hovers in the doorway, watching me.
At least he’s stopped trying to tell me not to do things, though I’m a little surprised he doesn’t also tell me how I’m doing things wrong.
“What should I do with these?” I ask. “Are they blueprints?”
“Leave them,” he says.
“You don’t want to use the table for, oh, I don’t know— eating?”
“No.”
Okay, then. I almost ask about the plans, but I’ve already been intrusive enough. I realize I never started the washer, so I locate detergent and dump in a capful. The washing machine sounds like a car with a bad engine, but at least it’s running.
“You should get back in bed,” I tell Wyatt, who hasn’t moved. I don’t look directly at him, like this will somehow encourage him to leave. “I’ll come take your temperature again in a minute. Do you want some water?”
I peer into the fridge, which resembles a ghost town.
The only thing missing is a tumbleweed blowing by the half-empty (and likely expired) ketchup, some water bottles, and a container of Cool Whip, which I think should be kept in the freezer.
It has a piece of duct tape on the front that reads DO NOT THROW AWAY.
I’m all set to ask about it when Wyatt says, “This was my uncle’s house.”
Turning slowly, I meet his gaze. “Yeah?”
The small smile from a few moments ago is gone, replaced by a frown. Not the normal grumpy one. This one is more somber, and it shoots a bolt of concern straight through my chest.
“He died.” Wyatt sniffs.
Oh my gosh—is he about to cry?
I find myself frozen, one hand wrapped around the fridge handle like it’s my only lifeline.
“Wyatt, I’m so sorry.”
He only nods. But a moment later, his expression shifts once again, like a curtain has been lifted.
“It’s okay, JoJo,” Wyatt says with a smile. “Now you’re here.”
I frown. Because no one calls me JoJo. Definitely not Wyatt. We’re not exactly nickname people with each other.
Not only that, but his voice is lighter, with a musical lilt.
It sounds almost... flirty .
Didn’t he just seem like he was about to cry over his uncle dying? It has to be the fever. Maybe he’s not doing better but is actually just fever high. It would explain the mood swings. Or, you know, Wyatt having moods other than surly.
I take a step toward him, noting the way color has risen in his cheeks. “Wyatt?”
Then he smiles—a real, full smile like I’ve never seen. And I know something’s very wrong.
But it’s when he tries to use his crutch to—I think—boop me on the nose while slurring, “I like you, JoJo,” that I know.
It’s time to get him to the hospital.