32
I ’m hoarse and a little hungover when I wake up the following morning. Linda Ronstadt’s “You’re No Good” still plays on repeat in my head. I might have leaned into man-bashing songs a little hard in my song selection last night, but needs must.
My mind is still grappling with Leo being Al because what are the chances? I can’t help but feel that this is the universe trying to tell me something. I flash back to how he looked at me the day we met in the park. How I was nothing but a nuisance to him. I know he’s ambitious, and if there’s still a part of him that sees me like that—like my needs are secondary—we’ll never work out anyway. And that’s not taking into account that I now know he’s recently divorced, recovering from burnout, and in the midst of an elaborate scheme to decide his future for himself—a scheme that, I’d be foolish to forget, is still causing me quite a bit of financial strain. Maybe allowing something to happen with him would only cause unnecessary complications when I have enough on my hands already.
“That sounds like a weak-bellied cop-out,” Micki says when I tell her as much over lunch. She’s come over so I can quiz her on muscle names. “You’re saying that because this nice guy you talked to online is the same person as the nice guy across the street, you should cut your losses and run?” She throws a balled-up paper towel my way.
I duck and pout. “Well, when you put it like that…”
“What other way is there to put it?”
“You’re saying I’m overthinking things with him.”
“One hundred and ten percent.”
I groan. “But he called me a grouch to a supposed stranger online.”
“You’ve called him worse to his face.” She cocks an eyebrow. “And haven’t you both come to your senses since?”
I nibble the inside of my cheek as I look through the window toward Canine King. Leo has stayed deep in the store today, sending Jaz out with Tilly for her walks. I’ve barely caught a glimpse of him, and I don’t like it. Maybe Micki is right.
I hold up the illustration of a skinless human body and indicate the leg. “Okay, show me what you’ve got?”
“Sartorius, rectus femoris, vastus medialis.” She points. “So? What will you do?”
“I’m going to make sure you pass your class.”
She awards me a pointed glare. “With Leo.”
I lower the illustration to the table with a sigh. “I really don’t know, Mick. What would you do?”
She shrugs matter-of-factly. “Just text him. Start with Hi and take it from there.”
“Simple as that?”
“Simple as that.”
I do start several texts to Leo after Micki leaves, but none of them make it past her proposed beginning. He doesn’t reach out, either, and his apartment is dark all evening. For all I know, he’s fled to the farm to avoid me.
When noon rolls around on Tuesday and there’s still no sign of him, I finally text Jaz who I know is at the store. Just an innocent Are you guys having a good day over there?
It takes an hour before she responds. It’s nuts. Leo is sick so I’m alone. How do you answer the phone, take payments, and keep the store tidy without going completely bonkers?
He’s sick? With a pang of guilt, I glance at his jacket that’s still hanging on a hook by the back door. I knew he’d get too cold.
Sorry it’s hectic , I text Jaz before I pull up my thread with Leo. Things between us may be awkward, but it’s not going to stop me from checking in. Hear you’re sick. Anything I can do?
Soon after, I get busy with the afternoon shoppers, and when I look at my phone again, he’s still not responded. I’m getting genuinely concerned now.
What kind of sick is he? I ask Jaz. Have you been in touch with him?
Bad cold I think , she responds. I talked to him at lunch and he sounds awful.
Okay. That calms me somewhat. At least he’s not dead with Tilly chewing on his bones over there.
I lock up for the day at five and send him another text: Let me know if I can pick up some meds. My fingers hover above the screen for a moment before I add, And let me know you’re okay.
I find it hard to focus on my sewing that evening. My gaze constantly goes to the dark windows of his apartment, wondering, worrying. Why isn’t he texting back? Maybe something really has happened. Lunch is now almost twelve hours ago, and pondering it further, I’m not at all sure Jaz’s assessment was even right.
I reach for my phone again. Sorry to keep texting, but I’m a little worried. Okay medium worried. So here’s the deal, if I don’t hear back from you by 10 am, I’m calling the police. Or the aunts.
I jump into a straighter position when, finally, the moving dots appear. He’s alive!
I’m here. Sick and gross. I’ve basically been sleeping since yesterday afternoon.
I let out a breath. Impressive. Sorry you’re so sick, but at least you’re not kidnapped or lying in a pool of blood somewhere.
That’s where your mind went?
I send back a shrug emoji.
I’ll be fine , he types. Fluids and rest, right? You’ll have to train alone tomorrow, though. Sorry. Say hi to the aunts from me.
I suppress the disappointment and refocus—more training is always more training. It might give me another leg up. At least that’s what I’m supposed to think.
Will do. Get some more rest and I’ll check in tomorrow. Keep your phone on! G’nite.
G’nite , he types. And thank you for worrying about me.
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I turn my phone off. With any luck, he won’t remember my excessive concern tomorrow.