“It’s the middle of summer,” he grumbles. “When I moved here, I didn’t think I’d need anything.”
“Well, you know the whole catching-a-cold-in-the-cold thing is not how a virus works, right?”
“Yes,” he pouts.
“Okay. Good, because youaresick. You need to hydrate and take some cold medicine and probably ... shower?”
I feel bad saying it, but I bet it would make him feel better. He looks like he’s been sleeping in the same clothes for days.
He’s silent for a minute, and I wonder if I’ve pushed it a little too far. But then he speaks again, with his voice now so small and his eyes on the ground. “I don’t want to shower, because then when I get out, it’ll be really cold.”
He seems so in pain that I take hold of his wrist just to give him some indication that I hear him. It’s hard to watch someone being this fragile and stubborn simultaneously. It kicks something into gear for me.
“You need to shower,” I insist. “You’ll feel better, and you’re already up. Come on—I’ll turn on the heater in the bathroom and put a lot of towels in there and fresh clothes, and it’ll be hard, but it’ll really help. And then we’ll get you into bed, and I’ll go get you medicine, okay?”
“Okay,” he says quietly, nodding slightly, as though he wants to say yes but it hurts too much to move. To be honest, I’m surprised that he’s immediately acquiescing. “Thank you for that.”
“No problem,” I reply, swiftly getting into gear now.
I turn on the shower and the heater in the bathroom. I open the linen closet (thankfully Esther’s old apartment has the same exact layout as mine) and grab two big towels, then find a new shirt and shorts in his drawers. I carefully guide him into the bathroom and look around.
“Do you need help in here?” I ask tentatively, not sure if I’mwayoverstepping by now discussing what is essentially his undressing. But he’s looking so out of sorts that I can’t help but worry he might not be able to get his sweater over his head.
He shakes his head softly. “I’ve got it, I think.”
I nod and close the door. I can hear him slowly moving, and I step away, not wanting to eavesdrop.
I look into his room and see his sheets are a mess—sweaty and disheveled. I go into caretaking autopilot, stripping the bed and placing fresh sheets on top. I pick up a knocked-over box of tissues and tidy up around the room. I fill a large glass of water and place it on a coaster on his bedside table. I light a candle to try and make the atmosphere more soothing than stale. Then I put the dishes in the dishwasher and wipe the counters.
Paws and Whiskers watch as I go, heads pinging back and forth as they follow my movements.
He comes out of the bathroom a few minutes later, already looking a little better. I can see the relief written all over his tired expression. He walks into the bedroom and stands in the doorway, looking at his tidied room and newly made bed.
“You did all this?” he asks, turning toward me and fixing me with a confused stare.
“Yup,” I say, brushing past him, not wanting to make a thing out of any of it. “I’m running out to get you medicine. Are you allergic to anything?” He shakes his head. “Okay then, lie down. Leave your phone and computer in the other room so they don’t tempt you to try and be productive again, and I’ll be right back.”
Chapter 17
I walk out without a glance back. I go upstairs to stop by my apartment for my wallet. George hops up, so I clip his leash on, and we walk outside.
I’m not really sure what exactly has gotten into me. Maybe it’s my ingrained professional need to help when I see someone who really needs it.
But as I hear George snorting at me as he trots along, I get the sense that even he knows I’m fooling myself.
I might’ve avoided Eli for the past week and a half, but it doesn’t mean I can forget whatever shifted between us on the roof. He’s more human to me now, more precious after I’ve gotten an inadvertent inside vantage point. And maybe sharing loneliness is the most tethering admission someone could make to me.
I get into the drugstore and grab whatever seems useful—cold medicine, zinc (Dane swears by it, and she swears by very little), cough drops, a thermometer, and rapid strep tests, just in case. I pause at the VapoRub and then decide against it when the thought of rubbing anything on Eli makes my heart rate speed up unnecessarily.
Ridiculous.Notthe thoughts I need to be having.
I check out and head back to our building, dropping off George before heading downstairs to Eli’s apartment. I knock and make my way in.
I see his laptop and phone are still abandoned right where he left them by the couch, so I’m glad he took at least one piece of advice.
One of the cats is sitting by the door, almost as though she’s been waiting for my return. I pause, trying to gauge what her goal is. But instead of protecting her domain, she rubs herself across my leg. I guess that’s a seal of approval from a cat, if there ever was one.
The other cat is on the bed with Eli, who’s left the door open and is curled up, with his head on the pillow and everything else under the covers. He normally seems perpetually in motion—moving, talking, filled with expression and verve—so this quiet makes him seem almost like an entirely different person. He’s a cat without its claws. I’m hesitant to disturb the scene.
