Although I haven’t done anything in the bathroom yet except wipe down the mirror and the counter, it’s neatly arranged. The hand soap is definitely not what was here when his grandmother lived here, and the towel hanging from the ring looks new too. The toilet paper is stocked, there are no random splashes of water or soap on the countertop, and the rug is in place with no flipped corners.
It’s enormously satisfying to see, and my opinion of Roman goes up a little bit.
I don’t find anything in the top drawer except a few bars of wrapped soap—old, probably his grandmother’s—and an ancient toothbrush that, in my opinion, needs to find the trash can immediately. I leave it, though, and move on.
It’s in the second drawer down that I find what I’m looking for. Tylenol, a bunch of tubes of Airborne, several half-full bottles of Tums, and—excellent—a giant bottle of ibuprofen.
“Found it,” I call, pulling out the medicine and closing the drawer again. “And”—I glance at the expiration date—“it’s not expired, so we’re using it.” I return to the living room and tap Roman on the shoulder as I pass the couch on the way to the kitchen. “Sit up. I’ll grab a glass of water. You need to take this.”
“Don’t want to,” Roman mumbles, curling up more tightly.
“Too bad.” I grab a glass from the kitchen, fill it with water, and then return to the living room—where Roman still hasn’t moved. “Come on. Sit up.” Placing the glass carefully on the floor, I shake four ibuprofen into my hand. “I’ll dump this water on you, Roman.”
The mountainous lump on the couch stirs, groaning once more, and then shifts slowly upright. When his blankets fall away, he grasps weakly at them. “Cold,” he mutters.
“Because you have a fever,” I say patiently. “So take the medicine. Come on.” I hold the ibuprofen out to him, waving it in his face?—
But all he does is open his mouth.
I snort. “Absolutely not.”
It’s then that I see the tired laughter in his eyes, the weak curl of his lips, and I force myself not to find him funny.
“Come on,” I repeat, and he closes his mouth, reaching out and taking the medicine from me.
He pops them in his mouth and accepts the glass of water I hand him, taking a giant gulp. Then he grimaces and looks at me, more awake and lucid than I’ve seen him yet.
“You have a horrible bedside manner,” he says.
“My job interview didn’t specify I would need otherwise.”
His lips twitch at this. “Not my personal nurse. Got it.”
“Who can I call to come hang out here until you’re feeling better?” I say. Then, nodding at the water, I add, “Drink the rest of that. You’re probably dehydrated.”
He listens to me, downing the rest of the glass, but after that he shakes his head. “No need,” he says. He leans back, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’m fine.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “I’ll call someone?—”
But his tired laugh cuts me off. “Call who? Denice, who has a newborn at home? My dad?” He shakes his head again. “I’m really fine. The medicine will kick in and I’ll be good to go. This should be on its way out, anyway; these bugs never last very long. I’m just going to go shower.”
I can’t stop my skepticism. “You genuinely look like a shower would do you in,” I say.
His shoulders twitch into a limp shrug. “I’ll wait a bit. I’ve been lying on that couch all day,” he goes on, sounding drowsy now. “But thanks to your presence, I am officially embarrassed enough of my current state to get up and moving.”
“I—” My words die on my tongue, though, when I see the way his cheeks seem to be flushing even redder, and the way he keeps his eyes closed. “Are you actually embarrassed?”
“Definitely,” he says. His mouth crooks into an uncomfortable smile, one eyelid finally opening just a crack to look at me. “You’re supposed to think I’m dashing, remember?”
“You’re sick,” I say. It makes no sense, my sudden desire to reassure him—not to hold his hand or coddle him, just to remind him of the situation. “No one is dashing when they’re sick.”
“Bet you are,” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering closed again.
“I’m not,” I inform him. “I’m a cranky patient. I glue myself to my bed and sleep until I’m better, and I grouch at anyone who tries to disturb me.”
“Sisters take care of you?”
“They try. We take care of each other.”For now,I add grudgingly to myself.
