Chapter 17
I walk out without a glance back. I go upstairs to stop by my apartment for my wallet. George hops up, so I clip his leash on, and we walk outside.
I’m not really sure what exactly has gotten into me. Maybe it’s my ingrained professional need to help when I see someone who really needs it.
But as I hear George snorting at me as he trots along, I get the sense that even he knows I’m fooling myself.
I might’ve avoided Eli for the past week and a half, but it doesn’t mean I can forget whatever shifted between us on the roof. He’s more human to me now, more precious after I’ve gotten an inadvertent inside vantage point. And maybe sharing loneliness is the most tethering admission someone could make to me.
I get into the drugstore and grab whatever seems useful—cold medicine, zinc (Dane swears by it, and she swears by very little), cough drops, a thermometer, and rapid strep tests, just in case. I pause at the VapoRub and then decide against it when the thought of rubbing anything on Eli makes my heart rate speed up unnecessarily.
Ridiculous. Not the thoughts I need to be having.
I check out and head back to our building, dropping off George before heading downstairs to Eli’s apartment. I knock and make my way in.
I see his laptop and phone are still abandoned right where he left them by the couch, so I’m glad he took at least one piece of advice.
One of the cats is sitting by the door, almost as though she’s been waiting for my return. I pause, trying to gauge what her goal is. But instead of protecting her domain, she rubs herself across my leg. I guess that’s a seal of approval from a cat, if there ever was one.
The other cat is on the bed with Eli, who’s left the door open and is curled up, with his head on the pillow and everything else under the covers. He normally seems perpetually in motion—moving, talking, filled with expression and verve—so this quiet makes him seem almost like an entirely different person. He’s a cat without its claws. I’m hesitant to disturb the scene.
But he sees me lurking and shifts himself to sit up.
“I was wondering if I’d dreamt you,” he murmurs, I think not quite realizing what he’s saying. I try to shake it off.
“Nope, your friendly neighborhood shower forcer and medication pusher isn’t a fever dream, I’m afraid,” I joke, pulling a chair from the corner of his room to sit down next to the bed.
The cat that was by the door has wandered in and hopped onto the bed, too, so now Eli is framed by little furballs on either side.
His stare on me is disquieting. I fidget and pull up the bag of all my drugstore purchases. “Start with this,” I say, unwrapping the cold medicine and handing it over to him.
He dutifully takes it and downs it with some of the water I left by his bedside. I pull out the rapid strep test and prep it. “Let’s swab this, too, because if you have strep, it’s actually an easy solution to get antibiotics. If it’s a virus, it’ll just be a lot of hydration, cold medicine, and waiting for it to pass.”
He nods and takes the swab, going through my prescribed motions without hesitation. I swirl it around and set it aside to give it time. I hand over the thermometer.
“Why does it matter?” he says. At my confused look, he continues. “I just mean ... I get that I’m ill. I’m not pretending anymore that I’m not. I just don’t see what I gain from knowing how ill.”
“Well, if you’re over a certain temperature, that becomes more of a medical issue.”
“Do you think it’s that bad?” he asks, his uncertainty making it clear he’s feeling even worse than his particularly rumpled state already suggests.
“I think knowledge is power,” I say, as kindly as I can, while I hand over the thermometer.
He sticks it in his ear without complaint, and we wait for the beep.
“I have no idea what Fahrenheit temperatures mean,” he says, handing the thermometer back over. I look at the display and try not to let the shock show on my face. His temperature is at 103.4, which is sort of on the cusp of where I’d want to take someone to the hospital. But even after spouting my knowledge is power mumbo jumbo, I’m not sure he needs that information.
“It means you’re sick, but I’m guessing you’ll live,” I reply with what I hope is a comforting smile. He blows out a sigh and crumples back onto his pillow.
I pull the strep test back over and see, unsurprisingly, that it’s positive.
“Well, we have a winner,” I say, turning the test so he can see it.
“What do I do?” he asks, unsure.
I pull out my phone. “We’re going to input your information and schedule a telehealth doctor’s visit,” I say, typing as I’m talking. “Since we have the rapid test, they can prescribe you antibiotics without seeing you in person, and you can start taking them ASAP. I know it seems worse than a virus, but this means it’ll actually be gone faster.”
I put us in the queue and then get started on the forms. “What’s your middle name?”
“Eli.”
“Not your first name,” I say, hoping I can get him to focus long enough to do this before conking out.
“No, Eli is my middle name,” he replies. I stare at him. “What?”
“Okay, so what’s your first name?”
He purses his lips. “It’s Jarvis,” he says begrudgingly.
My eyes go wide, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m not going to ask him what it’s like having a name most associated with a robot. But maybe since he goes by Eli, he didn’t like the name before it became an Avengers accessory.
“All right,” I enunciate, ignoring my natural urge to rib him. I type in his address (since I obviously know that) and estimate his height and weight. “Do you have insurance?”
“Not for my body, eyes, or even teeth yet, I’m afraid,” he says, and I quirk a small smile, thinking of his strong opinions on the roof.
“Well, it’s not a big deal. These telehealth things are usually like fifty bucks anyway. And I’m sure your antibiotic can be a generic, so that won’t be bad either.”
“Okay,” he says. “Thank you. I guess I really did need a friendly neighborhood shower forcer and medication pusher.”
The sincerity is etched into the exhaustion on his face. I’m imagining him fighting this all day—sending emails and texts, trying to get work done, and feeling so frustrated to not be able to muscle past it. He’s used to gunning through life on his own, even when he’s had people around him. I can obviously relate to that. The permission to stop and rest is probably not something he gives himself often.
“No problem,” I whisper.
I type in the rest of the information and wait for our turn. He snuggles back onto the pillow and closes his eyes. His hair is a curly mess, and I have an urge to push it back, to soothe him again with something physical. I wonder if he’d purr like the cats, leaning back into my touch the way he did earlier.
But the reverie is interrupted by the chiming of my phone.
“Hello, Mr. Whitman,” a friendly voice says. I hold up the phone so it’s facing him and he doesn’t have to expend the effort, although he does sit up, as though he can’t quite bring himself to be so informal in front of a doctor. “I’m Dr. Banks. I see in your notes that you took a rapid strep test and it came back positive.”
I hand him the test, and he holds it up to show her. “Yes, I’ve been feverish all day but trying to ignore it. Obviously that wasn’t going so well.”
She chuckles, clearly not surprised by that course of action. “What’s your fever now?” she asks.
“I took some medicine, so I’m hoping it’s a bit down, but when I took my temperature before, it was ... I’m sorry, this feels so silly to say, but 103.4? Fahrenheit?”
“Well, that’s not silly, Mr. Whitman; it’s actually quite a bit higher than we’d expect.”
“Oh, I just meant ... in Celsius you’d be dead with that ... never mind,” he says, the effort to explain clearly more than it’s worth. “What do you mean ‘higher than we’d expect’?” he asks nervously, suddenly realizing what she said.
“It’s not at a level where we’d be concerned, so don’t be alarmed,” she says in a soothing voice. “I just meant we normally see those fever spikes in small children, not grown men.”
He grumbles something inaudible, and I have to stifle a laugh at his annoyance at the comparison.
“It probably means you were overdoing it and this is your body’s way of fighting back. I’m glad you finally took some time out for yourself,” she says, and I see him wince. I know that feeling too—the understanding that you haven’t put yourself first, and the way it eventually creeps up on you.
“So what do I do now?” he asks, skirting past it.
“I’m going to prescribe you some antibiotics. You’ve got your pharmacy info already in, so I’ll send it over right away. That should knock it all out, and you should start feeling better in a day or two. If you’re not, then you’ll want to go see a doctor in person. But that would be very unlikely. Strep, once it’s diagnosed, is usually pretty easy to get rid of.”
“Thanks very much, Dr. Banks,” he says, and with a few more basic instructions, she lets him go.
He shifts toward me once the phone is off, moving with effort to sit up taller, as though buoyed by the knowledge that there’s a plan ahead.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” he says sincerely.
I can feel my face heating up, along with the rising urge to minimize. “Just think of it as though we’re even now. I ruined one night by locking you up on a roof but fixed another one by inappropriately barging in and shoving a doctor in your face.”
I try to smile and make it into a joke. But he reaches out and tenderly takes hold of my wrist.
The sensation of his thumb sliding across my pulse point makes every part of me flush, as though the touch has transferred the heat from his body to mine. There’s something in the simplicity of the movement that makes it all the more affecting. This isn’t a thumb-war grip; it’s affection and gratitude. It’s softness, something that seems so hard won when it’s coming from Eli.
I lift my eyes from where his hand is touching me and see him staring back at me.
“You’re decisive,” he says, and I’m not sure exactly why that’s what’s stuck out to him, but I do know he means it as a compliment.
“It’s in my nature to try and fix people’s problems,” I say with a shrug, once again downplaying, trying to ignore the heat crawling its way up to my cheeks.
“Most people don’t,” he says, watching me, his gaze burrowing past the defenses I’m throwing up.
But before the heat of the moment engulfs me, he gingerly removes his hand from my wrist and sinks back into his pillows. As though he knows a little distance is necessary.
He’s silent for a moment while he looks down at his hands. Then he speaks so softly I almost don’t hear him at first. “When you went to the store,” he says, “I was thinking how, if you hadn’t happened to come by, I probably would’ve just suffered alone, carrying on and pretending like everything was fine. And even if someone else had come and asked if I was okay, I would’ve begged them off and underplayed it.”
“Whereas I just barged in,” I scoff, the heat still not quite gone from my face.
But he shakes his head and looks back up, straight into my eyes. “You know how to handle me,” he says, an unanswered question written into his expression that I already know he’s not going to ask. “I don’t know why, but you seem to always be one step ahead of me in a way no one else is. I didn’t like it as a quality in a therapist,” he says with a chuckle, and I can’t stop a sheepish grin from showing on my face. “But I like it like this.”
That tactile sympathy I’ve been feeling for him all day, the urge to push his hair back, to have his thumb graze over my wrist, to give comfort in a solidified way, feels especially present now. I reach out and squeeze his forearm, still so hot to the touch. “I’m glad I could help,” I say honestly.
But I stand up, before the moment can get any more charged.
“I’m going to go pick up your antibiotics, okay?” I say, moving the chair back and putting some space between us.
“I just hope you know how much I appreciate it,” he says, not fully allowing the previous conversation to drop without notice.
I nod, and walk back out.
It doesn’t get quite so heavy again.
With antibiotics in his system, the cold medicine bringing his fever down, and sleep clearly imminent, I leave him alone for the rest of the evening, with my phone number scribbled on a Post-it in case he needs something.
The next morning I bring homemade chicken broth and some of that strawberry-rhubarb cornbread.
“You saved my life, and now you’re bringing me soup and baked goods?” he asks after opening the door, already looking worlds healthier than he did yesterday.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say with a sigh. He grins, takes the food containers out of my hands, and beckons me inside. “You seem a lot better today?” I venture.
He starts heating up the broth and then turns back to me. “I’ve gotta say—if my opinion on these things matters—antibiotics are pretty great.”
I shake my head, trying to tamp down my smile as I sit down at his kitchen table. “Is that a matter of opinion?”
“With the craziness of the world today? You never know what counts as facts anymore,” he says, grabbing the broth out of the microwave and sitting across from me.
“I think we’re all pretty universally in agreement on antibiotics.”
“You’d hope,” he retorts, then lifts the bowl to take a sip straight out of it. He closes his eyes and murmurs, “This is so good, Nora.”
“You’re just dehydrated and hungry after being sick.”
He sets the bowl down and leans forward, catching my eyes. “You’re really bad at taking a compliment,” he says, the challenge inherent.
But I’m not going to bite. Probably because, as I’m learning with Eli, he usually only dishes it out when he’s mostly right.
“Fine,” I counter. “Thank you.”
I like how when he grins, one side of his mouth curves up more, making his little displays of joy slightly goofier and more open. I like how he seems to have more of them in store now that he’s feeling better.
“Do you need anything else?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No, I’m good,” he says sincerely. “I really do feel a lot better today. I think I’m just going to take the doctor’s orders and stay inside, watch a movie, and take it easy today.”
“Is that what Dr. Banks said?” I ask.
He chuckles. “I meant you . I’m taking your prescription of staying off my laptop and accepting my convalescence very seriously.”
“Good.”
He’s night and day from where he was yesterday, but he definitely needs to not push it.
“What exciting Saturday plans do you have today?” he asks, picking at a piece of the cornbread now that he’s drained the soup.
“No plans,” I say. “Although I did pretend to be extremely busy, because my mother has been texting me nonstop for recipes without nightshades, since she now believes they’re the source of all her inflammation.”
He lifts an eyebrow, the skepticism written all over his face. “Does she have a lot of inflammation?”
“Not anything identifiable by anyone other than herself,” I say, in an attempt to be diplomatic.
“And what are you supposed to do about it?” he asks, taking progressively larger bites of the cornbread to the point where his voice is a little muffled. At least this time it’s from carbs and not a sore throat.
“What am I ever supposed to do about any of it?” I say with a roll of my eyes. “She decides something, upends her life, insists on everyone else upending theirs, and will probably forget about it by next week. She’s concerned because tomatoes are a nightshade, and I’ve entered my summer ‘eat tomatoes on everything’ stage.”
“Ah, a very important season.”
“In my house, absolutely,” I laugh.
“Well, if you’re avoiding your mum, why don’t you stay in and watch a movie with me?” he asks, standing up and clearing his plate. “Maybe then I can scam some more of that absurdly good cornbread out of you.” I pull more out of my bag, and I love seeing the Pavlovian way his eyes light up. “You had that in there the whole time!”
“I didn’t know you’d like it that much!” I explain. “Dane loves it, too, so I packed some for her. But I can make more; I always do.”
He comes over and slowly picks up the extra cornbread, like he’s carrying an especially fragile important object.
“Okay, since I’m stealing your friend’s cornbread, you have to let me at least give you an out for your mother. I can’t take all this debt I owe you now.”
I stand up. “I told you—I got you locked on a roof, so now we’re even.”
He shakes his head solemnly as he walks over to the couch and flops onto it, grabbing the remote as he goes. “That was yesterday. Now on top of saving my life, you’ve given me the American marvel that is cornbread.”
“Stop saying I saved your life,” I reiterate, and sit down with slightly less gusto than he’s showing in his movements.
He hands me the remote. “I propose you pick the film—any film you want—since you saved my life.” He smirks at that, clearly pleased to be continually riling me up.
“So I keep you company instead of watching a movie in the comfort of my own home, and this is supposedly a favor to me?”
He tosses a blanket my way and snuggles under one that he’s laid on top of himself.
“Exactly. Doesn’t this friendship work great?”