Chapter 16
AURORA
Because Roman’s car is in the driveway when I get to his place after work on Wednesday, I knock on the door instead of entering on my own. He doesn’t answer, so I knock again—and then again, less patiently.
That’s when it occurs to me that I’m being stupid, because even if his car is here, I have his permission to enter on my own.
So I lift the doormat, a bristly brown thing that’s probably fifty years old, and find the little key underneath.
It clicks into the lock with ease, and thirty seconds later, I’m inside.
The house is silent, no sign of anyone.
It’s not that I’m worried. Roman can take care of himself, regardless of how he sometimes seems like an overgrown child. I am curious, though, about why he didn’t show up for his last days.
It seems unlike him, that’s all.
But the stillness in here is almost unnerving, and the air is warm, stale.
I pull my cardigan off—dark blue, a rare bit of color in my work wardrobe—and then step further in. “Roman?” I say, except the word comes out hoarse, likely prompted by the quiet around me. So I clear my throat and try again. “Roman?”
I startle out of my skin when a faint sound finds me, filtering down the hall from the living room—the sound a cow might make if it were dying, or the sound a garbage truck would make if it got stuck lifting a dumpster halfway up. It’s an unpleasant groaning noise, low and muffled.
On the whole, not promising. Is he sick? I step out of my shoes and line them neatly against the wall before hurrying down the hall and into the living room, and it only takes a second to find my former boss.
Or rather, I think it’s him—the lump on the couch that resembles a pile of laundry more than an actual human being. Staring in alarm, I drape my cardigan over the arm of an upholstered chair and then cross the room to get a better look.
“What are you—oh.”
My frown curls into a deeper grimace as my eyes find him.
This giant man, the one who stood like a bouncer at the door of Tyler’s and loomed over me in his office, is now curled into a ball on his couch.
He’s shivering faintly, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and for the first time, his hair looks dull and greasy instead of gleaming and perfect.
“Ha,” I say with triumph. “I knew it couldn’t always be like that.” But half a second later I realize that this is not the time, because this man looks half dead, and my frown returns. “Oops—sorry,” I whisper.
Leaning down, I press my hand to his forehead, only to yank it away again, because Roman is burning up. I don’t need a thermometer to tell me he has a fever. I look at the floor next to him, but I don’t see any bottles of medicine.
I’m not a doctor or a nurse, but I poke his massive shoulder anyway. “Roman,” I say. “You caught the office bug, huh?” When all I get is another groaning sound, I grimace. “I know. I’m sorry. But you’re really sick. Can you take ibuprofen?”
A second later Roman’s eyes pry themselves open, and when his gaze falls on me, it’s only half lucid.
“You,” he mutters. “Don’t look at me.” His lids flutter shut again. “Not sexy today.”
I can’t stop my laugh, a burst of sound that filters gently through the otherwise silent room. “It’s okay. I’ll let it slide. I’m going to dig around until I find medicine, so if there’s anything embarrassing in your cabinets, tell me now.”
Another painful noise from Roman, but since he doesn’t object, and since he really needs to take something, I get up and head into the kitchen anyway.
I do stop by the windows first, opening the blinds and then letting some fresh air in.
“Sorry,” I say when Roman gives what I think is a muffled protest. “But you’re just breathing in your own germs in here. You need to circulate this air. It’s nice outside anyway.” I glance back at him. “How long have you been like this?”
No response.
“Since yesterday, I guess,” I say when he still doesn’t speak. Then I enter the kitchen.
The first place I look is the cabinet above the fridge, because that’s one of the places we keep medicine, but all I find there is a stack of cookbooks and some old half-burned candles. I check the rest of the cabinets too, but there’s nothing helpful.
“Bathroom?” I mutter to myself, trailing back to the front hallway and into the half bath. Then, louder, I say, “I’m going into your bathroom drawers. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
I give him five seconds to protest, but he doesn’t, which is good enough for me.
Although I haven’t done anything in the bathroom yet except wipe down the mirror and the counter, it’s neatly arranged.
The hand soap is definitely not what was here when his grandmother lived here, and the towel hanging from the ring looks new too.
The toilet paper is stocked, there are no random splashes of water or soap on the countertop, and the rug is in place with no flipped corners.
It’s enormously satisfying to see, and my opinion of Roman goes up a little bit.
I don’t find anything in the top drawer except a few bars of wrapped soap—old, probably his grandmother’s—and an ancient toothbrush that, in my opinion, needs to find the trash can immediately. I leave it, though, and move on.
It’s in the second drawer down that I find what I’m looking for. Tylenol, a bunch of tubes of Airborne, several half-full bottles of Tums, and—excellent—a giant bottle of ibuprofen.
“Found it,” I call, pulling out the medicine and closing the drawer again.
“And”—I glance at the expiration date—“it’s not expired, so we’re using it.
” I return to the living room and tap Roman on the shoulder as I pass the couch on the way to the kitchen.
“Sit up. I’ll grab a glass of water. You need to take this. ”
“Don’t want to,” Roman mumbles, curling up more tightly.
“Too bad.” I grab a glass from the kitchen, fill it with water, and then return to the living room—where Roman still hasn’t moved. “Come on. Sit up.” Placing the glass carefully on the floor, I shake four ibuprofen into my hand. “I’ll dump this water on you, Roman.”
The mountainous lump on the couch stirs, groaning once more, and then shifts slowly upright. When his blankets fall away, he grasps weakly at them. “Cold,” he mutters.
“Because you have a fever,” I say patiently. “So take the medicine. Come on.” I hold the ibuprofen out to him, waving it in his face—
But all he does is open his mouth.
I snort. “Absolutely not.”
It’s then that I see the tired laughter in his eyes, the weak curl of his lips, and I force myself not to find him funny.
“Come on,” I repeat, and he closes his mouth, reaching out and taking the medicine from me.
He pops them in his mouth and accepts the glass of water I hand him, taking a giant gulp. Then he grimaces and looks at me, more awake and lucid than I’ve seen him yet.
“You have a horrible bedside manner,” he says.
“My job interview didn’t specify I would need otherwise.”
His lips twitch at this. “Not my personal nurse. Got it.”
“Who can I call to come hang out here until you’re feeling better?” I say. Then, nodding at the water, I add, “Drink the rest of that. You’re probably dehydrated.”
He listens to me, downing the rest of the glass, but after that he shakes his head. “No need,” he says. He leans back, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’m fine.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I’ll call someone—”
But his tired laugh cuts me off. “Call who? Denice, who has a newborn at home? My dad?” He shakes his head again. “I’m really fine. The medicine will kick in and I’ll be good to go. This should be on its way out, anyway; these bugs never last very long. I’m just going to go shower.”
I can’t stop my skepticism. “You genuinely look like a shower would do you in,” I say.
His shoulders twitch into a limp shrug. “I’ll wait a bit. I’ve been lying on that couch all day,” he goes on, sounding drowsy now. “But thanks to your presence, I am officially embarrassed enough of my current state to get up and moving.”
“I—” My words die on my tongue, though, when I see the way his cheeks seem to be flushing even redder, and the way he keeps his eyes closed. “Are you actually embarrassed?”
“Definitely,” he says. His mouth crooks into an uncomfortable smile, one eyelid finally opening just a crack to look at me. “You’re supposed to think I’m dashing, remember?”
“You’re sick,” I say. It makes no sense, my sudden desire to reassure him—not to hold his hand or coddle him, just to remind him of the situation. “No one is dashing when they’re sick.”
“Bet you are,” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering closed again.
“I’m not,” I inform him. “I’m a cranky patient. I glue myself to my bed and sleep until I’m better, and I grouch at anyone who tries to disturb me.”
“Sisters take care of you?”
“They try. We take care of each other.” For now, I add grudgingly to myself.
“But…?” Roman says. “Hidden but at the end of that sentence,” he clarifies when I don’t answer, the words faint. “You take care of each other, but…”
I sigh. “But we won’t always. They’re both in serious relationships.”
“Ah,” he says on an exhale. “I remember.” His lips twitch slightly, but his eyes remain closed, and he doesn’t move otherwise. “Jealous?”
I have to consider for a second to find the answer, because in truth, I don’t let myself think about it much. “Maybe,” I finally admit. “A little. I don’t know.”
They’re vulnerable words, but Roman is sick and half asleep anyway.
“My point was,” I say firmly, redirecting the conversation, “that you shouldn’t be embarrassed. Okay?”
He hums, then pulls up his t-shirt and sniffs it. “Ugh,” he mutters. “I reek.” He takes a deep, slow breath, and when he speaks again, he sounds sleepy. “Thanks for coming, Aurora.”
I startle when he says my name, because for maybe the first time, he’s using it in a normal voice. He’s not joking or teasing or flirting. He’s just…talking.
It sounds more intimate this way.
“Sorry you had to come see this,” he goes on. “Skip today. Come on Friday. I’ll be fine then.”