Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Rue
There’s no sign of Hugo when I get home from work on Friday.
I blink, unsure if I’m somehow overlooking my hulking neighbor, but he’s not there. Not on his porch, not hunched over his roses, not loping around the side of the house with his clippers in hand, waving at me like the world’s happiest dork.
“This is a nice change,” I say to no one in particular, but the instant the words leave my mouth, I realize I don’t mean them.
This is not a nice change. It’s more than a little concerning, especially after getting only an hours-later thumbs-up reaction in response to my proof-of-life text last night.
I pull into my garage, my finger hovering over the button to close the door, but a little dart of worry keeps me from tapping it.
Hugo’s a grown man. He doesn’t need anyone checking up on him.
A little change in routine isn’t anything to be worried about.
Then again, he rarely leaves his house, and he never has visitors over.
I don’t know who’d call in a wellness check on him if he truly disappeared.
One of his clients, maybe, if he misses enough appointments.
“He’s fine,” I say out loud. “He’s an adult. He’s not my pet.”
But he kind of feels like my pet. Even so, I don’t need to check on him.
When I grab my bag and sling it over my shoulder, though, I can’t quite bring myself to walk into my house. When was the last time Dr. Bore missed two consecutive days at the mailbox? Plus, it’s sunny and unseasonably warm today. Hugo should be out with his shears and his fertilizer.
After one too many death scenes where a neighbor discovered a body far later than any of us would have preferred, I need to lay eyes on a living, breathing Hugo.
I won’t be able to settle in for the rest of my night until I’m sure I’m not going to be the one combing through his house, looking for clues as to what caused his death.
With a half-annoyed, half-worried sigh, I hitch my workbag up my shoulder and walk to his half of the duplex, stepping onto his porch for the first time.
The realization has me hesitating before I lift my hand to knock.
I’ve never once been to his front door—any mail that was misdelivered I either hand over in person or stick in his mailbox.
He’s never invited me over for coffee or drinks or a meal.
Of course, the same is true for me, but he’s been in my place doing landlord things like fixing that leaky bathroom faucet a couple of months ago.
This feels like an invasion. I don’t need to check on him. I should go.
I turn, ready to retreat to my half of the duplex, until I think about the big, open smile he greets me with every day, and something in my chest tightens.
Apparently, I’m going to check on him, possible invasion of privacy be damned.
The doorbell feels too jarring, so I settle for a gentle knock.
“Dr. Mohr,” I call, then immediately wince. I don’t know why I said that. I knock again, a little louder this time. “Hugo?”
Still nothing. I’m starting to feel both alarmed and idiotic.
Maybe he’s out of town. Maybe he went to a conference—although wouldn’t a telehealth doctor go to teleconferences?
Shit. Maybe he’s in a virtual session and couldn’t be outside to greet me, and I’m interrupting some important presentation on, I don’t know, depression for shut-ins.
Just as I’m about to implode from embarrassed indecisiveness, my neighbor’s blurry form appears through the wavy leaded glass, fractured and uncertain. Then the door cracks open to reveal a slice of his familiar face, looking almost as fractured as it did through the pane.
“Did you just call me Dr. Mohr?” he asks in a sluggish rasp.
“Hi,” I say awkwardly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“Dr. Mohr?” he repeats, sounding confused.
“Sorry, I…” I gesture helplessly. “I wasn’t sure—I mean, when you weren’t—” I point at my garage, then over my shoulder at the mailboxes before letting my hands fall to my sides. “I was worried.”
The one eye I can see widens, and he opens the door all the way.
“Rue.” His unfocused gaze swims over me. “Are you really here?”
“Yes,” I say, my eyes finding the bruise on his jaw before snapping to the angry gash above his left eyebrow.
It’s been closed with Steri-Strips, but the bruising underneath is horrific, deep purple at the center and spreading to an ugly greenish yellow that stretches almost to his cheekbone. “Holy shit, what happened?”
He blinks like he’s still trying to convince himself I’m actually standing on his welcome mat. Then he shuffles back a step and turns, walking unsteadily down the front entryway.
“Just an accident,” he says. “Shut the door.”
I’m assuming he means with me on the inside. But even if he didn’t, there’s no way I’m leaving him alone until I figure out what’s going on.
He staggers into his living room. The blinds are drawn, and the lights are off; the only illumination filters in through the cracks and from the adjacent rooms. But it’s enough for me to see that my neighbor is not himself right now.
“Nice of you to check in, neighbor girl, but you don’t have to stay.” He settles himself on the couch with a pained grunt. “I’m fine.”
I snort. “Really convincing delivery from a man clinging to the upholstery to keep from keeling over.”
“I’m upright,” he says without any heat just before he loses his grip on the cushions and slowly deflates into the chocolate-brown corduroy.
“Oookay.” I set my bag on the floor. “How did you get a massive head injury? And don’t say ‘accident’ again.” I’ve got some room on my list and some time in my schedule. If somebody hurt Hugo…
“I fell leaving yesterday’s board meeting at the West Side Women’s Shelter.” He closes his eyes and rolls so he’s mumbling into the cushion. “Hit my head on a car bumper.”
“You fell,” I repeat. “Into a bumper.”
He’s lying, of course. The bruise on his chin is likely from a punch, and I’m almost scared to ask what the hell happened to his head. Was he in a fight? Does Hugo even know how to fight? I want to bombard him with questions, but he’s clearly not up to an inquisition right now.
I kneel on the floor next to him. “Well, this is definitely a concussion.”
He nods once, then grimaces.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“I am a doctor,” he grumps.
“Yes, Dr. Mohr. I know.” I roll my eyes, but my lips twitch as I do it. “I meant a medical doctor who could look at your head and give you actual medicine so you don’t die.”
“Yes. I saw a doctor.” He burrows into the cushions, his voice still worryingly thick and slow. “No brain bleed. Probably. Thank you, blood test thingy. I just need a couple of days of sitting still and avoiding screens.”
“And have you?” I glance at the phone, iPad, and laptop piled on the end table next to his head.
He makes a noncommittal noise. “For the most part.”
“No more screens for you,” I say, my mind racing. Should I hide his tech? Find him some painkillers? Call someone for a second opinion?
“I’m taking Tylenol,” he mumbles, as if he’s read my mind. “And something for nausea.”
“Zofran?”
“Mmm-hmm. That.”
Some of my alarm fades. Zofran is prescription only, so he must be correct about getting medical care.
He lifts his head a few inches. “You’re here, right?”
I don’t love the blurry confusion I see on his face, even though I know it’s normal postconcussion.
“I’m here,” I assure him, carefully stroking back the hair that’s fallen over his injured forehead.
“Mmmm. Keep doing that,” he mumbles as his breathing evens and slows.
“Okay,” I whisper, brushing my fingers gently over the strands as he drifts to sleep. Once he’s out, I keep petting him, marveling at how soft his hair is under my—
I still. The strands are so damn soft, which means Dr. Huge-o Bore doesn’t have a single speck of gel in his hair.
I almost laugh at the realization that it’s thick and silky with a little curl when he’s not mashing it down, and oh my god, he’s also not wearing his glasses.
I was so caught up in Are you okay? and What happened?
and Do you mind if I kill whoever did this to you? that I didn’t focus on the rest of him.
Without the barrier of his brown frames—which I secretly think are kind of nerdy-cool, not that I’d ever say so to Felicity—I can drink in his long, dark lashes and the bold arc of his nose, and I have to yank my hands away to keep from running my fingers along his jawline.
What am I doing? I can’t paw at a sleeping, injured man. I scoot backward, which both eliminates the temptation to touch him and gives me enough distance to take in the rest of him. With something bordering on trepidation, I let my eyes drop below his chin, and the news is not good.
My buttoned-up, tucked-in, locked-down neighbor is completely undone.
He’s wearing a wrinkled, semibuttoned dress shirt, like he tried to get ready for work out of habit but couldn’t manage more than a few buttons.
The sleeves are sloppily rolled, and before I get sidetracked composing mental poetry to his forearms, I continue downward and discover that he’s wearing sweatpants.
I’ve never seen my neighbor in sweatpants.
In fact, if you’d asked me yesterday, I’d have said that the chances of this particular man even owning sweatpants—thin gray ones, no less—were basically nil, and I certainly wouldn’t have predicted that the well-worn material would cling to the muscles of his thighs and give me yet another place I’d need to pull my eyes away from immediately.
In my haste to look anywhere else, my gaze falls to his feet.
His bare feet.