Breaking the Seventh

by Allie Gail

  Well, not normally. Last night was different. One isolated lapse in judgment doesn’t count, does it? Besides, in spite of my questionable behavior, I’m not signing up to be his next-door nookie.

  Although I can’t say it wouldn’t be fun.

  On the other hand, since he moved in, I haven’t noticed a single visitor over there so he must not do much entertaining.

  On the other hand…

  I’m running out of hands here.

  Maybe it’s best not to think about all this right now. It’s making my head hurt.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing dejectedly in front of the kitchen cabinet where I normally keep the aspirin, Benadryl and various first aid items. Gazing at a forlorn bottle of NyQuil that has maybe half a teaspoon’s worth of cherry-flavored liquid pooled at the bottom.

  “Oh no, no, no-oo,” I groan, shaking the nearly-empty bottle back and forth as if I expect it to magically refill itself. I must have finished it off back in January when I had that killer sinus infection.

  Well, great. Either I have to get dressed and drive to Walgreens, or it’s going to be one long, miserable night.

  Hmm. I could call and beg Autumn to bring me some, but I really hate to be a pest. Not when I could get off my ass and go pick it up myself. I’m not an invalid, after all.

  Then it occurs to me that maybe Myles has some, so I send him a hopeful text: Would you happen to have any NyQuil?

  My phone bleeps thirty seconds later. I might. Got a cold?

  I wonder if he’s worried about catching my germs. Sore throat. Tonsillitis or strep, I’m thinking. Green barfy face emoticon.

  Give me twenty minutes and I’ll bring some over.

  Sighing with relief that I don’t have to haul myself back to town, I collapse on the couch and wiggle beneath a fleece blanket with the remote. Charlie, sensing that I could do with some extra affection, cuddles up with me to watch Cartoon Network. He likes the classic episodes of Scooby-Doo. Okay, maybe I’m the one who likes Scooby-Doo, but I swear his eyes stay glued to the TV screen as if he’s watching along with me.

  It’s our very favorite episode, too. The one where the gang meets Sonny and Cher and they all get stranded on Shark Island. I love that one. Cher cracks me up.

  The second the doorbell rings, Charlie leaps off the couch and takes off for the front door, yapping his little head off. Reluctant to get up, I simply call out in a raspy voice, “Door’s open!” Sure, yelling irritates my throat, but it’s the lesser of two evils considering how every movement hurts.

  My heart flutters a little when Myles appears in front of me. Every time I see him, he looks better than the time before. It’s like I forget, in his absence, just how handsome he truly is. The white polo shirt he’s wearing contrasts his dark hair, making it look almost black, and his friendly grin has me feeling ten times better already. Charlie bounces around his ankles, delighted that we have company.

  “You look terrible,” Myles informs me, dropping a plastic bag on the coffee table as he bends over to pat Charlie.

  So much for feeling better.

  “Congratulations,” I tell him darkly. “You’re the forty-ninth person that’s said that to me today.” Talking is uncomfortable, so the words come out in a slow, thick drawl.

  “Only the forty-ninth?” Crouching down in front of me, he presses a cool hand to my cheek. “You feel like you might have a fever. Have you seen a doctor?”

  “I have an appointment in the morning,” I confirm, wondering if the heat he’s feeling is an actual fever or just my body’s reaction to his presence. Trying to avoid eye contact, I lean past him to peek into the bag. Oh my gosh. Not just the medicine I asked for, but vitamin C and throat lozenges as well. “Did you go out and buy this stuff for me? You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know.”

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “I’ll have the billing department send you a statement.”

  “No, seriously…”

  “Don’t worry about it. This one’s on the house.” Touching my forehead, he frowns, obviously concerned. “You’re really hot.”

  “Why, thank you,” I say lightly.

  “So when did this start?”

  “What, me being hot?”

  Removing his hand from my head, he lifts an eyebrow.

  “This morning,” I relent with a sigh. “Everyone at work was sick all last week. Guess it finally caught up to me.”

  “Mm.”

  “Might be a good idea for you to keep your distance,” I warn him. “I don’t want you catching this.”

  “I never get sick.”

  I gaze at him skeptically. “Uh-huh.”

  “You let me worry about that.” His eyes search mine. “Have you eaten anything today?”

  “Um. Had a milkshake at lunch.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Not really.” That isn’t exactly true, but the thought of trying to swallow solid food makes me cringe. My tonsils feel like sandpaper lodged in my throat.

  “Think you could drink something?” Myles straightens and looks down at me expectantly.

  I nod, smiling sweetly.

  He goes into the kitchen, Charlie following at his heels. I hear him rummaging around in the fridge, and a moment later he reappears to ask, “You don’t have anything other than milk?”

  I shrug indifferently. What’s wrong with water from the tap?

  Muttering something underneath his breath, he switches on the patio light and opens up one of the French doors that lead to the back yard. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mystified, I watch as he leaves. What the heck – all I wanted was some NyQuil. Now somehow I’ve ended up with my very own Magic Mike version of Florence Nightingale. How did that happen?

  Shame I’m feeling too lousy to enjoy it.

  Watching through the glass doors until Myles is out of sight, Charlie turns his head to cock it sideways at me as if he’s baffled as well.

  Chapter Twelve

  At what point, exactly, did I lose control of my life?

  In a matter of just a few days, I’ve gone from swearing off women to voluntarily assuming responsibility for one. From renouncing all females to letting some perky blonde flake – who has the most exasperating way of popping into my thoughts at random moments – very deftly twist me around her scrawny little fingers.

  Not that I’m saying it's her fault. Admittedly this snowballing situation is my own doing, the only excuse being that I'm drawn to her like a moth to a porch light. What the hell's the matter with me? She whistles, I come running. Is this what it’s like to be pussy-whipped? I should’ve dropped off the medicine and said sayonara baby, but no-oo. One look at the dark circles under her eyes and the feverish flush of her cheeks, and right away I sign up for the job of mobile nurse.

  Am I really that desperate to get laid?

  Why, yes. Yes, I am.

  Opening my fridge, I grab two bottles of Sprite and then, as an afterthought, snag some Campbell’s soup from the pantry. If she’s got strep, I figure this will be the easiest thing for her to get down. People are supposed to eat chicken noodle soup when they’re sick, aren’t they? Chicken broth is supposed to have anti-inflammatory properties or some such bullshit. At least, that’s what my grandmother used to say. I’m willing to bet her advice was as good as any doctor’s.

  Leah’s still huddled on the couch when I return, a plaid blanket pulled up to her nose like it’s February instead of late June. It’s amazing that she can be cold when it’s hot enough to make your balls sweat out there. She says nothing, but her eyes stray from the TV and follow me through the living room until I disappear into her kitchen, where I pour some Sprite into a glass over ice. After I find where she keeps the bowls and silverware, I nuke the soup in the microwave before bringing it out to her.

  Sitting up, she wraps the blanket around her shoulders and gives me a listless smile. “Thank you.”

  “No problem.” She’s already in her pajamas. W
hite ones with blotchy brown spots all over them. My guess is it’s supposed to be some kind of cow print. It looks…well, I was gonna say silly but to be perfectly honest, on her it simply looks hot.

  How do you like that? Even dressed as a sick cow, she’s still the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  My job here is done. I should leave.

  Instead, I take a seat on the couch beside her and pretend to be engrossed in a cartoon version of Sonny and Cher as they run, arms flailing, from what is obviously a dude in a shark costume. I mean, come on. The fucker has legs. That in itself should be a dead giveaway. Charlie makes himself comfortable between us, but I notice that he keeps a hopeful eye on the soup. The little beggar isn’t fooling anyone. You can look at his round little belly and tell that he hasn’t missed a meal.

  After a few bites, Leah gestures to the TV and says, “You can change it if you want to.”

  “And miss seeing who the shark god really is?” I’m still trying to figure out what she’s wearing. This would be the perfect time for an udder joke. Or…yeah, maybe not. I think I better save that one for later.

  She doesn’t say anything else for a while. I’m trying very, very hard not to let my mind wander back to last night. Trying not to recall every detail that turned my dick to stone and my resolve to mush.

  The way she looked at me. What she felt like in my arms. How she tasted on my tongue. Like coconuts and rum and warm tropical sunshine...

  Nope. Not thinking about any of that.

  I’m also not counting the times I’ve had to resort to taking matters into my own hands lately. Wouldn’t surprise me if I end up with carpal tunnel from all the wanking. Wonder what the record for that is? Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ve surpassed it.

  I really need to give it a rest. Gonna be hard to explain to everyone why my right arm is bigger than the left.

  By the time the gang has unmasked the shark god, Leah has finished most of her soup and topped it off with a hefty dose of cherry-flavored NyQuil. At this point I figure I should probably go home and let her get some rest, but then she looks over at me with that dimpled grin of hers and I know I’m not going anywhere.

  “Wanna watch a movie?”

  “Sure, if you’re up to it.” So what if I end up catching whatever bug she’s carrying. That’s what health insurance is for, right?

  She points to a row of DVDs and Blu-ray discs on the entertainment center beside the television. “You pick one.”

  “Okay. What are you in the mood for?” It takes all of five seconds for me to realize that was a moot question. Her genre of choice is clear. The selection here seems to be limited to horror, and that’s pretty much it.

  “Something scary.”

  Naturally.

  I don’t know why I’m surprised by the titles either. They’re exactly what I should have expected, considering whose collection I’m looking at. Killer Klowns from Outer Space, Attack of the Mushroom People, The Gingerdead Man, Slumber Party Massacre, Puppet Master vs. Demonic Toys…if you ask me, the only thing scary about these films is that someone actually went to the trouble of producing them in the first place.

  I pull one out and gape at the cover. This has to be a joke, right? There’s no way Jennifer Aniston could’ve ever starred in a movie featuring homicidal leprechauns. Could she? “Uhh…”

  “Not a horror fan?” Even through the hoarseness, I can hear the amusement in her voice.

  “Is that what you call this?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Everyone’s a critic. How about Cabin Fever?”

  Charlie, as if expressing his disdain for tonight’s selection, jumps down from the couch and streaks upstairs.

  I shake my head with a smirk. “You’re sick and you want to watch a movie about flesh-eating diseases. Really? You sure about that?”

  “Oh, shut up. Be happy I didn’t tell you to put in Troll 2.”

  “Why? What’s that one about?” Trolls, I’m assuming.

  “You’ve never seen it?” She looks incredulous, which in itself is funny. Why would it shock her that I’ve never heard of this flick, much less seen it?

  “No…”

  “That’s it,” she decides. “We’re totally watching that one. You cannot go another day without seeing it. Pop it in and prepare to have your mind blown.”

  I do. And fifteen minutes later I completely get why she insisted I had to watch this one. Clearly her intention is to torture me. I mean, holy head-numbing shit – I’ve seen a lot of bad movies in my day, but this atrocity takes the absolute cake in terms of cinematic disasters.

  “Tell me something,” I say, never taking my eyes off the screen. I can’t. I think my retinas have been traumatized. “Is this a satire? Did they make it this bad on purpose?”

  Sliding lazily down into the sofa, she turns to stretch her legs out across my lap. “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you buy it on purpose? Or did you trip and swipe your credit card by mistake?”

  “What do you mean? It’s a classic.”

  “Oh. Classic. Ri-ight.” I begin to massage her calves through the cow-spotted cotton and instantly forget all about the terrible movie. My eyes are still glued to the TV, but I’m not retaining a damn thing I’m seeing.

  With a sigh that resembles a groan, Leah reaches for a cough drop and I turn my head to watch as she unwraps it and pops it in her mouth. Poor thing, she looks so miserable. It’s obvious she doesn’t feel well at all. I wish I knew how to help. I feel like I should be doing something, but I’m not sure what.

  “You sure you’re okay? I could drive you to the ER if you want,” I offer.

  Laughing, she almost chokes on the cough drop. “It’s just a sore throat, goober. I think I’ll live.”

  “Well…let me know if you need anything, all right?”

  Her gaze softens as she appraises me curiously. I’m almost afraid she’ll ask me why I’m being so nice to her, and if she does I have no idea what I’ll tell her. I can’t even fathom myself why I’m suddenly so protective where she’s concerned. Maybe it’s because I get the feeling she needs someone to take care of her. To watch out for her. It seems to me that underneath that smart mouth and cocky exterior is someone just as lost and confused as the little girl in the photograph.

  “Thanks. I’ll do that,” is all she says.

  Not that it’s any great tragedy, but I never do find out how the movie ends. Within half an hour she’s sound asleep, her lips parted as she snores softly. For a split second I consider waking her so she can go upstairs. But that would just be dumb. Rousing her out of a deep sleep just to send her to bed – what kind of sense does that make? She looks perfectly comfortable where she is. What’s the point of disturbing her?

  Carefully moving her legs so I can get up, I tuck the blanket in around her before taking the soup bowl and glass into the kitchen to wash them. I’m just finishing up when Charlie pads in and sits there looking at me like he wants something. At first I think he expects to be fed, but there’s some dry food still in his bowl so it’s not that.

  “Do you need to go out?” I guess.

  Wagging his tail eagerly, he barks in response.

  “Shh! Keep it down, pal.” Okay, why in blue blazes am I asking the dog to be quiet? It’s not like he has a clue what I’m saying.

  Still, we are apparently communicating on some level because going out is precisely what he wanted. He takes off for the edge of the back yard, does his business and then promptly trots back to the door so I can let him in.

  Leah doesn’t budge an inch during any of this. She’s out like a light. I don’t think a howler monkey riding a wrecking ball through her living room wall would wake her at this point.

  Brushing a light kiss against her forehead, I turn off the TV and slip out, locking the door behind me.

  My office window faces the street, so I notice when Leah leaves for her doctor’s appointment the next morning. I also notice when the yellow VW pulls back into the driveway an hour and a
half later. It's kind of hard to miss that car. The color’s so bright you almost need shades to look directly at it.

  I start to send a text, but before I'm finished typing out the message I change my mind and decide to give her a call instead. I want to hear in her voice whether or not she's feeling any better.

  Not, judging by the sound of things. Her greeting is a raspy, incomprehensible groan. “Mu-uh...?”

  “Well, good morning, Typhoid Mary.” Our roles seem to be reversed here. Now I’m feeling chipper, and she’s the crabby one. “I can’t tell you how lovely it is to hear your sweet, melodious voice.”

  “Mm. Funny. You’re a funny man.”

  “What did the doctor say, sicko? You gonna live?”

  “Nope,” she drawls hoarsely. “Don’t worry though. I put you in my will.”

  “Yeah? That was nice of you. Leave me anything good?”

  “Uh-huh. I hereby bequeath you my butt so you can bend over and kiss it.”

  Smiling, I consider suggesting that she hold that thought for later. But right now I doubt she’s in the mood to be propositioned. “What did he say, really?”

  “Not a lot. Wrote me a prescription for some strong antibiotic I can’t pronounce. Only have to take it for three days.”

  “Did you get it filled yet?”

  “Yeah. I just took one.”

  “You’re not planning on going in to work, are you?”

  “Not right now. Maybe later if I feel better.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to feel better that fast.”

  “I dunno…I might. I’m thinking this stuff must work pretty quick if I only have to take it for three days.”

  She’s either very optimistic or very delusional. Nobody recovers from being sick that fast. “I think you should stay home today and rest.”

  “Can’t. I have class tonight.”

  “Do you want to infect everyone there?”

  She hesitates uncertainly, as if this thought never occurred to her. “No-o. But I have a test.”