by gard, marian
"That's the thing, Collin. It never does. I want someone who will share with me the way I do with them." She's said this exact statement to me time and time again.
"OK." What the hell does she want me to say?
"But you don't want to," she counters, narrowing her eyes.
"I do share a lot of things with you, Leighton. Way more than I share with most people. It's just never enough for you. Maybe I'm not enough for you." The frustration I've been trying to keep at bay is working its way into my voice. She wipes away a tear from her cheek and looks up at me with a look of decisiveness I haven't seen color her face before.
"I get that you were really hurt, Collin. I can see so many ways that you've been let down in your life, and I'm sorry about that, I really am, but that can't be the never-ending excuse for why this relationship isn't working." There's so much anger and hurt in her voice. I know I should be comforting and try to deescalate everything, but I feel myself rising to it instead.
"That's what you think? That's why we're not working? It's all me?" She doesn't answer and I get the feeling this whole conversation has been a test I didn't pass.
"I think we need a break," she says firmly.
"A break?" I nearly shout. I'm searching her expression for clues. Is she fucking serious?
She nods. "You need to learn to trust me, or to trust anyone—I can't be with someone who has this many deep-rooted issues. We need to put things on pause, I think." There are tears pouring down her cheeks, but she doesn't appear to be backing down.
My mouth drops open. I definitely didn't see this coming. I know she's been upset, but to end things? Now? She tips up on her toes and kisses me lightly on my cheek before turning and rushing down the street. I watch her go, her name never quite making it to my lips.
Chapter 24
Rachel
"Rachel, you're going to do fine." Beckett eyes me as he straightens his tie behind me in the bathroom mirror.
"I wasn't even nervous last night, but this morning I just feel ill." I study my reflection closely. My eyes are sunken in, and I feel like my coloring is just…off. Bottom line: I look like crap. Why the hell is this happening on what is arguably the most important day of my career?
"Did you eat any breakfast?" Beckett asks.
That does it. At the mere mention of food a wave of nausea consumes me and I barely make it to the toilet in time.
"Whoa!" Beckett shouts. "Rachel, are you OK?"
I flush the toilet and glance down at my suit which is now splattered with vomit. "No, Beckett, I'm clearly not OK!" He hands me a wet washcloth and I wipe my face with it. Then he bends down touching my forehead with the back of his hand.
"Whoa! Rachel, you're burning up."
"Oh, God," I whine, just before emptying my stomach yet again into the toilet.
"I'd stay with you, but I have to go on this business trip. I just don't think I can get out of it this late in the game. I'm sorry, baby," he says, kneeling next to me. "Are you going to be OK?"
I wave him off. "I'll be fine, Beck. I'll take some Advil." I glance down at my now completely ruined clothes. "And another shower. And I'll make this day happen." Much to my surprise that answer seems to suffice. Beckett kisses me on top of the head and tells me to take care of myself. A few minutes pass, I puke some more, and he's out the door on his way to O'Hare, like it's nothing.
Another hour passes and I've done everything I can think of to get myself together and nothing has worked. I can't even seem to keep water down. I stare at my phone, cringe, and then call Tim.
He answers on the first ring.
"Talk to me, Rachel."
"I'm, um, really sick. I think it's the flu." There's an interminable silence and I feel another strong wave of nausea overtake me. I lie down on my kitchen floor, new suit and all, and take a deep breath. "I've been trying to leave my house for over an hour, Tim, and I just can't," I gasp.
"Rachel, we have a presentation, a very important presentation, in less than two hours. It is my expectation that you are going to be at the office ready to go in less than an hour. Can you make that happen or not?" His words feel like a lashing.
I roll to my side and take a deep breath. "Yes, Tim. I'll be there."
"Good," he replies tersely and he's gone.
I slowly sit up, and then very shakily stand, willing myself to make it to the car.
I'm halfway to work when I feel bile rising up into my throat again. I scramble around in the car, searching for an empty cup, bag or anything that I can get sick into and not ruin my clothing. I find a plastic bag and dry heave into it. My head is throbbing and my hands are shaking so hard I can barely keep them on the wheel. The car behind me honks and I lurch forward, feeling more dizzy and feverish, than I ever have in my life. I get to the next stoplight and all of sudden my vision starts to get blurry. Darkness covers my periphery and I feel like someone is drawing curtains together on either side of my eyes. I've felt this way one other time and it was moments before I passed out. I immediately pull the car over and park. It's an illegal spot, right in front of a fire hydrant, but I think I would welcome the police at this point. I roll down the window and allow the cold air to blow into my car and I feel the dizziness subside slightly. There's no way I can present like this. I glance at the clock and realize I'm just minutes from the deadline that Tim laid out for me. The thought of canceling today is heartbreaking, but I don't know what else to do. I'm not even sure I can make it a few more blocks to work. I pick up the phone and dial Tim, knowing full well that this very call might get me fired. I'm unable to reach him directly and instead get his assistant, which may even be worse. She will be sure to spread this around like gossip in the seventh grade, before even bothering to inform Tim.
By some miracle I make my way home. Kneeling by the toilet I manage to text Vanessa.
Me: I have the flu. Tried to drive to work and couldn't make it. Career over.
Vanessa: Oh my God! No! What can I do to help?
Me: Don't worry. I'll be fine. I just needed to share my misery for a moment.
Vanessa: Let me know if I can do anything! Feel better!
Me: I'll be fine. I just need some sleep. TTYL
Vanessa: Ok. Call me later to let me know you're ok.
Me: K
Chapter 25
Collin
I just finished my presentation at Marshmen Corp., and the words "nailed it" pretty much sum it up. We've basically had this account since I talked with their CEO about six months ago. I feel bad that Rachel isn't going to get what she wants, but business is business. This wasn't her account to lose. Her team wasn't ahead of us. I know this because I arrived twenty minutes early, so she must be after us...but where the heck is she? I stroll back out into the waiting area to see the guy, who I'm pretty sure is her boss, and some other woman, who is definitely not Rachel. What the hell? I'm positive she told me that she was on the sales team for this one. She'd made it sound like a pretty big deal to her, so I'd be surprised if she'd tried to get out of it. I pretend to check my phone and wait for them to be called back.
Within minutes, Maxine's right hand man arrives. He shakes hands with Rachel's boss and then asks, "I thought there were going to be three of you?"
"Ah yes, I do apologize, our third became ill suddenly." His irritation is evident in his posture and voice. This is not good. I feel myself fill with worry. Rachel? I immediately begin a text message to her, but reign in my impulsivity just before hitting send. It's been weeks since I last saw her. The only contact I've had wasn't really even true contact, because she returned the clothes when Reba was there, not me. Although it wasn't lost on me that I could've been home, she probably thought I was. So, that's something…maybe. Reba claims she thinks Rachel misses me, but that could just be Reba being Reba.
I've thought about calling a hundred times, especially after my girlfriend dumped me in the middle of the street, literally. There's been no word from Leighton, either, but I'm guessing she wanted m
e to make the next move. I sent her a text that afternoon to make sure she got home OK, but that was it. I guess I'm probably a dick, but then again, I'm not sure I want to get back together. Before she ended things she was pressuring more than ever, and I don't think I can handle it right now. I would have no clue how to explain any of this to Rachel; she'd probably accuse me of trying to manipulate her, or the situation. She said we needed to get back to our separate lives. I've been trying hard to respect that.
Screw it.
Me: you ok? just saw your boss and overheard that you're sick?
Much to my complete shock, she texts me back almost immediately.
Rachel: I think I'm dying, or maybe that's just my career. Tim will never forgive me.
I stare at my phone, trying to sort out what to say to her. My mind is racing. How sick is she? She's worried about her job? Before I can respond though, another text comes through from her.
Rachel: don't worry…not actually dying. stomach flu. it started early this morning and Beck's out of town so I couldn't get to the doctor or anything. doubt it would've helped anyway.
Me: what can I do to help?
Rachel: nothing. thanks for checking on me
Me: are you sure? my afternoon is pretty open.
That's a lie, but I'll reschedule all of it to be with her in a nanosecond.
Rachel: that's ok. thanks
I close out the chat and think to myself that she didn't sound upset to hear from me.
*** *** ***
Thanks to the Internet, it was creepily easy to find Rachel's address. A little over an hour later, I'm standing outside of her townhome, knocking for the second time. No answer. I risk it, and call her.
"Hello?" Her voice is raspy, like she hasn't used it for days.
"Do you hear that knocking?"
"Oh God, that's you? What are you doing here, Collin?" She sounds as though every word she speaks takes painful effort. That decides it. I'm not leaving here without a fight.
"Um, what kind of friend would I be if I heard you were seriously ill and totally alone, and then I just went about the rest of my day?" C'mon give in.
"You should go, Collin. Trust me, you don't want this!" She sounds like she's trying to be forceful, but she can't quite pull it off.
"I'm not afraid. Please open the door for me and I promise that'll be the last thing I'll ask you to do today."
"'K," she mumbles. She must really be sick as hell, because that was a whole lot easier than I thought it would be. I hear the door unlock and then the sound of footsteps retreating. The hell?
"You're insane if you think I'm letting you see me like this." Her voice echoes from an adjacent hallway.
I turn the corner to see her standing there covering her face. "Rachel, I thought you were versed on the concept of object permanence. I can still see you, even if you can't see me."
"Yes, but I don't have to see you, seeing me."
She looks so pathetic; I can't help but laugh a little. I put my arm around her. "C'mere. Where were you resting?"
"The couch." She gestures with one tired finger across the room to an oversized beige couch.
I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Alright then. Mosey over there and I'll be there in a minute."
I stay in her kitchen and watch as she traipses across the room calling out to me as she goes. "The only reason why I'm not fighting you on this is because this fever and the endless vomiting has sucked away nearly all of my life force." She slumps down on to the couch and haphazardly pulls a blanket over her.
"Just relax, Rachel." I begin unpacking my bags. I brought chicken broth, saltine crackers, Gatorade, ginger candy, Tylenol, two washcloths, a folding tray, and a bucket. "Where's your thermometer?"
"Bathroom counter," she mumbles, limply gesturing toward a door.
I retrieve it and bring it to her. "Open up."
"This is humiliating," she whines, but she cooperates, accepting the thermometer beneath her tongue. It beeps a few moments later.
"It's pretty high, Rachel, you must be feeling horrible. Have you taken Tylenol?"
"Can't keep it down."
"OK. Well, then our main objective is to get some fluids in you. Let's get you propped up." I help her sit up and then I place two large pillows behind her. She lets out an unhappy groan. I head off to the kitchen and fill a small bowl with broth and grab a large package of crackers. Next, I place the tray I brought over her legs. Her eyes are closed and she seems so out of it, I don't even think she notices.
"It isn't my chicken broth, but it'll do." I bring a spoonful of it to Rachel's lips. She shakes her head.
"Collin, I'll just get sick. I don't want to puke in front of you."
I laugh. That's what's she's worried about? Has she forgotten how much we binge drank together? "Rachel, I'm a big boy. I can handle some puke. Besides, we went to college together—it wouldn't be the first time I've seen you get sick. Just let me help you. Please."
She shakes her head no.
"I've got a bucket right here." I point to the small red one I brought that's sitting on the floor. "So we're all good if you get sick."
"Oh, God," she moans.
"Rachel," I whisper.
She keeps her eyes closed, but finally whispers, "OK, let's try it."
I place a cool washcloth on her forehead, and then begin to slowly feed her a spoonful of broth alternated with tiny cracker fragments. Neither of us talks for a while. When the bowl is nearly empty, I ask her, "How are you feeling now?"
"Better. Thank you." I can tell she's improved and just seeing her feel a little bit healthier is so satisfying. I haven't felt this gratified about anything in a long time.
"Good. Tylenol time." I head to the kitchen counter and grab the bottle of painkillers. Rachel follows me with her eyes.
"Where did all that stuff come from? Did you bring all of that?" She looks down and for the first time notices the tray I used for the soup. "And this?"
I smile at her. "Let's just say, this isn't my first time being a nurse."
A smile works its way across her weary face. "I feel sure there are about a million sarcastic comebacks I should be responding to that comment with, but I'm too run-down to think of any of them." We both laugh and then I see pain wash over her face.
"Does it hurt to laugh?"
She nods her head slowly.
"Here you go." I hand her two Tylenol tablets and cup of water. While she drinks I remove the cloth from her forehead. In the kitchen I rinse another cloth under cold water, wringing it out until it's cool and damp, but not dripping. I place the washcloth on her forehead and gently remove the tray. She makes a small, contented noise.
"Any nausea?"
"Yes," she groans. "It's better, but not gone."
"Try this." I hand her an unwrapped ginger candy.
"What is it?"
"It has real ginger in it. It should help with the nausea pretty quickly." She takes it from my hand and carefully places it in her mouth, closing her eyes.
"How do you know all this?" she asks.
"I've helped my mom through some pretty rough chemo treatments. She had some great nurses—they taught me a lot."
"Your mom has cancer?" Her eyes open, wide, staring back at me. She reaches up and gently touches my face. "Oh, Collin. I'm so sorry. How's she doing?"
"Not well. We've transitioned her to in-home hospice now."
"I had no idea," she says, and tears immediately flood her eyes.
I reach over and stroke her hair. "Hey, it's OK. Don't cry, Rachel. You just think about feeling better, for now. We can talk about it more another time." She blinks and the tears release themselves from her eyes, racing down her fair cheeks. She got to know my mother like few people in my life have, and though it's been a decade since they've seen each other, I know she still gets it. I hand her a tissue. "Do you want to lie down now?"
She nods her head. I shift the pillows to the end of the couch and help her recline, covering her with
the blanket.
"Go to sleep, Rach. I'm right here if you need me." Within a few short minutes her breathing changes and she falls asleep. I study her face while she rests. Her lips are parted slightly, forming her face into the expression I love. Her dark hair flows like a curtain over her forehead, cheeks and shoulders. Even sick with the flu, she's beautiful. She's incredible.
I sit down on the chair adjacent to the couch and tap out emails for about a half hour. After the most important stuff is covered, I get up to get some water. On my way, I briefly and gently press my hand to Rachel's forehead. She doesn't stir from my touch and she's still quite warm. I think she's likely to be out for a while. As I return from the kitchen, I take my time and casually check out Rachel's place. I'm trying to avoid creepy, stalker-esque behavior, so I'm careful not to disturb anything, but I can't help a little exploring. Her kitchen is small, but nice. It's painted a warm, sage green with white cabinets. Her countertops are basically bare except for what looks like a lot of paperwork from her job and a few knick-knacks. Besides the major appliances, she appears to only have a coffee maker. Checking her fridge feels too far, but I'd place a solid bet that she has nothing that would qualify as real food in there and only ready-made crap in the freezer. Oh, Rachel. Her family room is painted beige, except one wall, which is dark brown. An enormous dark-wood shelf filled with books, music, and loads of trinkets and doo-dads covers the largest wall. I run my finger along the books and cds and can't help but smile. So many of these titles she had when we lived together. Back then they were stored in rustic wooden crates that she'd stacked in her bedroom. Her things are fancier now, that makes sense, but the artsy-bohemian style I associate with her, still feels intact, and is reflected in the artwork she has hanging on the walls.
Rachel stirs a little and I take that as my cue to sit back down near her. Before I do, I gaze at her once more. She looks a little more comfortable than she did even twenty minutes ago. Her long, dark lashes splay out over the top of her cheeks and I think how dramatic they look against her pale skin. I fear if I indulge in too much more staring I will be fully in the creep department, if I'm not already. So, I log back into work and focus on getting as much done as I can. Rachel sleeps soundly for a couple of hours. I check her forehead again after awhile, and feel by touch that her fever has gone down. Around five-thirty there's a soft knock at the front door, followed by a louder one, almost immediately after. Rachel doesn't respond, but I jump up and sprint to the door.