Double shit.
I dial his number as I leave the trauma bay and head towards the employee parking lot. The phone rings once, twice, before I’m sent to voicemail. I open up our text thread, asking him how he’s doing and if he’s okay. I tell him Jackson’s sick too, and I know he called into work.
I don’t hear back from Jim when I’m in the grocery store, and he doesn’t respond when I’m sitting outside his condo. I try to call him again, the phone now going straight to voicemail.
By the fourth unanswered text message, I say “fuck it.”
I knock on the door of his condo, pressing my ear to the wood to listen for signs of life. After a few minutes, I knock again, this time more aggressive. “Jim,” I shout through the wooden door. “It’s Meg, I know you’re home and I know you’re sick. Let me in.”
I debate calling the maintenance man, faking concern that no one has heard from Jim for days and seeing if I can flirt enough to con him into unlocking his door, when I hear the muffled sounds of the locks turning. The latch clicks, and the door is opened a few inches.
I wait for Jim to open it all the way, but through the two-inch gap I hear his shuffled steps move in the opposite direction.
“Jim?” I call, a hesitant hand on the door. I push it gently, the squeak of the hinges echoing down the hall like a haunted mansion.
I open the door a little more, enough to peek my head in, just in time to catch the back of him as he rounds the corner and slips out of sight. I kick my heels off on the welcome mat, the cool floor almost slippery against the nylon pantyhose covering my feet.
Following his path down the hall, I turn to enter the living room, and the sight in front of me shocks me still.
I’ve only known Jim as the golden boy, the life of the party with a smile on his face. He’s full of energy, up for just about anything at any moment, but the man half-sitting, half-laying on the couch looks halfway dead.
His normally beautiful complexion is gray, dark half-moons under his eyes. His hair is greasy and sticking up in the back, like he hasn’t showered in days. The coffee table in front of the couch is littered with cracker crumbs and empty water bottles.
I’ve only been to his condo one other time. He invited Jackson and I over for dinner after a game, and it was at that time I realized being a single, childless trauma doctor in Chicago has its perks.
His penthouse is luxurious, with a ridiculous amount of space for one person. He has a gourmet chef’s kitchen that I’m fairly certain he never uses, and three sets of glass french doors that lead out to his private rooftop deck. He has breath-taking skyline views of the city that I could stand and admire for hours while sipping a glass of wine.
Today, those three sets of doors are closed, thick curtains drawn tight to shroud the entire place in darkness. Slits of sunlight fight to shine through the cracks, but fail. I lean over to flick on a small table lamp, and I gasp when I get a good look at his face.
“Holy shit, Jim.”
“I think I caught a little stomach bug, it’s fine.”
I take a tentative step closer, perching on the end of an armchair. “No, you have food poisoning. Jackson has it too.”
He cracks one eye open to look at me, and when I start to tell him about rancid mayo, his cheeks puff out like he’s about to puke. He holds a hand up to stop me. “I got it, got it.” He sighs heavily, attempts to sit up a little more on the couch. The leather creaks under his movements, but his arm gives out and he lays down on his side. “Another day or so and I’ll be fine.”
Stubborn men.
“Maybe. But I’m not gonna lie, you look like shit.”
“Thanks,” he mutters, an arm flopping over his face.
“Pack your things, you’re coming to stay with me through the weekend.”
“No, if you have Jackson to take care of I’ll just be in your way. I Door Dashedsome sports drinks and crackers. I’ll be fine.”
I look at the empty bottles and garbage lying around the floor. “The empty ones in front of you?”
He nods.
“Those are all gone. What are you going to eat?”
He doesn’t answer, breaths becoming heavy, and I’m fairly certain he just fell asleep.
I huff, getting up and heading into the kitchen. I open the fridge door, spying turkey, spinach wraps, fancy French cheese, enough vegetables to feed an entire family of rabbits, and almond milk. A few plastic containers of pre-packaged salads from the local market are stacked in front. Plenty of healthy things to maintain his ridiculous physique, but nothing that would appeal to you when you’re barely able to hold down water.
“What are you doing?” he calls out after me, the question sounding like a struggle to get the words out.
