But it feels inevitable. I don’t see how they can go on like this indefinitely.
“Well,” Juliet says when the silence stretches on just a millisecond too long, “keep us updated! And if I see any cheap rentals on Main, I’ll let you know. We can split an office space down the middle and share rent. One half will be your own PT practice and the other will be my dance studio.”
“That does sound like a great setup,” Poppy says with a grin and a wistful sigh. Then she glances at Juliet’s bowl of cereal. “Can I get some of that? I’m hungry.”
AURORA
Because Roman’scar is in the driveway when I get to his place after work on Wednesday, I knock on the door instead of entering on my own. He doesn’t answer, so I knock again—and then again, less patiently.
That’s when it occurs to me that I’m being stupid, because even if his car is here, I have his permission to enter on my own. So I lift the doormat, a bristly brown thing that’s probably fifty years old, and find the little key underneath. It clicks into the lock with ease, and thirty seconds later, I’m inside.
The house is silent, no sign of anyone.
It’s not that I’m worried. Roman can take care of himself, regardless of how he sometimes seems like an overgrown child. I am curious, though, about why he didn’t show up for his last days.
It seems unlike him, that’s all.
But the stillness in here is almost unnerving, and the air is warm, stale.
I pull my cardigan off—dark blue, a rare bit of color in my work wardrobe—and then step further in. “Roman?” I say, except the word comes out hoarse, likely prompted by the quiet around me. So I clear my throat and try again. “Roman?”
I startle out of my skin when a faint sound finds me, filtering down the hall from the living room—the sound a cow might make if it were dying, or the sound a garbage truck would make if it got stuck lifting a dumpster halfway up. It’s an unpleasant groaning noise, low and muffled.
On the whole, not promising. Is he sick? I step out of my shoes and line them neatly against the wall before hurrying down the hall and into the living room, and it only takes a second to find my former boss.
Or rather, I think it’s him—the lump on the couch that resembles a pile of laundry more than an actual human being. Staring in alarm, I drape my cardigan over the arm of an upholstered chair and then cross the room to get a better look.
“What are you—oh.”
My frown curls into a deeper grimace as my eyes find him. This giant man, the one who stood like a bouncer at the door of Tyler’s and loomed over me in his office, is now curled into a ball on his couch. He’s shivering faintly, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and for the first time, his hair looks dull and greasy instead of gleaming and perfect.
“Ha,” I say with triumph. “I knew it couldn’t always be like that.” But half a second later I realize that this is not the time, because this man looks half dead, and my frown returns. “Oops—sorry,” I whisper.
Leaning down, I press my hand to his forehead, only to yank it away again, because Roman is burning up. I don’t need athermometer to tell me he has a fever. I look at the floor next to him, but I don’t see any bottles of medicine.
I’m not a doctor or a nurse, but I poke his massive shoulder anyway. “Roman,” I say. “You caught the office bug, huh?” When all I get is another groaning sound, I grimace. “I know. I’m sorry. But you’re really sick. Can you take ibuprofen?”
A second later Roman’s eyes pry themselves open, and when his gaze falls on me, it’s only half lucid.
“You,” he mutters. “Don’t look at me.” His lids flutter shut again. “Not sexy today.”
I can’t stop my laugh, a burst of sound that filters gently through the otherwise silent room. “It’s okay. I’ll let it slide. I’m going to dig around until I find medicine, so if there’s anything embarrassing in your cabinets, tell me now.”
Another painful noise from Roman, but since he doesn’t object, and since he really needs to take something, I get up and head into the kitchen anyway.
I do stop by the windows first, opening the blinds and then letting some fresh air in.
“Sorry,” I say when Roman gives what I think is a muffled protest. “But you’re just breathing in your own germs in here. You need to circulate this air. It’s nice outside anyway.” I glance back at him. “How long have you been like this?”
No response.
“Since yesterday, I guess,” I say when he still doesn’t speak. Then I enter the kitchen.
The first place I look is the cabinet above the fridge, because that’s one of the places we keep medicine, but all I find there is a stack of cookbooks and some old half-burned candles. I check the rest of the cabinets too, but there’s nothing helpful.
“Bathroom?” I mutter to myself, trailing back to the front hallway and into the half bath. Then, louder, I say, “I’m goinginto your bathroom drawers. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
I give him five seconds to protest, but he doesn’t, which is good enough for me.
