When I pull up to the cabin today, Seth is on the deck.
Not sitting with coffee as I expected. Not pacing with his phone. He's in black athletic shorts and a grey T-shirt, barefoot on a blue yoga mat, moving through poses with careful precision.
I grab my cleaning supplies and pause, watching through the windshield. His eyes are closed, his breathing deliberate as he transitions from downward dog into warrior pose. The morning sun catches the sheen of sweat on his leanly muscular arms. He looks... peaceful. Focused in a way that has nothing to do with spreadsheets or board meetings, or whatever else a man who's worth billions thinks about.
It's hard to wrap my mind around that kind of money. He’s worth more money than I’ll ever see in my lifetime. Even if I lived ten lifetimes, I couldn’t come close. I should feel awkward around him considering he’s light-years away from me in terms of finances. But my mom has a saying: rich or poor, men put on their pants all the same. I strive to remember that and just treat him like anyone else. Part of me thinks he rather likes that.
I wince. Well, except when I get too nosy or pushy about his health. We didn’t end things on a good note last night, and for that I’m sorry. I’ve never gotten involved with a guest like this before, and I suppose that made me forget myself.
Okay, and holding his hand during lunch? How am I supposed to not forget my place when that happens?! That’s not normal and casual… Is it? I mean, I suppose friends can be close like that.
I blow out a breath and give myself a mental shake. I need to stop staring because it’s not doing me any good either. I’m getting all hot and bothered and thinking about things that will not end well at all for me. He probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time, so why would he want a girl that cleans for a living and has split ends on top of her split ends?
Quickly I grab my stuff and exit the car, hoping the click of the door closing doesn’t disturb him.
“Good morning.” His eyes open, finding me immediately. He holds the pose. “Coffee's already made. I'll be done in ten minutes.”
“Take your time.” I slip inside, oddly touched that he made coffee before I arrived. Again.
The cabin smells like the expensive dark roast he prefers. I pour myself a cup, add cream, and resist the urge to watch him through the window. Instead, I start my routine, gathering laundry from his bathroom hamper.
That's when I see the pill organizer on his bathroom counter, one that wasn’t there yesterday or any other day this week.
It's one of those weekly ones, divided by day and time. Friday morning is empty; he's already taken them. But I can see the other days, each compartment filled with multiple pills. White ones, small yellow ones, and a pink tablet.
I shouldn't look. It's none of my business.
But my hand reaches out anyway, picking up the organizer. On the side, written in neat, precise handwriting, is a list: Lisinopril 40mg (AM), Metoprolol 100mg (AM/PM), Atorvastatin 80mg (PM), Aspirin 81mg (AM), Clopidogrel 75mg (AM).
I don't know what most of these are. I can’t even pronounce them. The only one I recognize is aspirin. I pull out my phone and quickly search for the first one.
Lisinopril: Used to treat high blood pressure and heart failure.
My stomach drops.
Metoprolol: Beta-blocker used to treat chest pain, heart failure, and to prevent heart attacks.
Oh no. No.
Mrs. Avery said Seth had a health scare, and that’s why he was here for a month. She said he almost killed himself, but I thought she was being dramatic and joking, like working himself to death, figuratively not literally. He even mentioned at lunch yesterday that he collapsed, and again, I thought with his crazy busy work schedule it was probably exhaustion. Not this. Never this. Not again. I feel like a vise is around my own heart.
“Find everything you need?”
I jump, nearly dropping the pill organizer. Seth stands in the bathroom doorway, still in his workout clothes, his hair damp with sweat. His expression is unreadable.
“I'm sorry.” I set the organizer down quickly, my face burning. “I was just... I didn't mean to snoop.”
“It's fine.” He moves past me to the sink and picks up the organizer himself. “You were bound to see them eventually.”
“Seth... these are serious medications.”
“I know what they are.” He doesn't look at me, just sets the organizer back down precisely where it was.
“Heart failure medications. Blood thinners.” My voice comes out smaller than I intend.
“This is what happens when you work a hundred hours a week for fifteen years.” He finally meets my eyes, and there's something raw in his expression. “My cardiologist said my heartwas running on fumes. Blood pressure through the roof. Early signs of left ventricular hypertrophy. At thirty-six.”
I don't know what that last part means, but the way he says it makes it clear it's bad.
