Page 95 of Tito

Reggie

“Do you think you’ll feel better by time to go?” I asked.

He looked up from sipping his tea. “I don’t know.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think you should go to the doctor,” I said. “You’ve been sick for over a week. We didn’t two Sundays ago because dad was working, and we didn’t go last Sunday because you were sick. From how you’re acting, I’m guessing we’re not going again today. My dad’s going to be so disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, but my stomach is killing me.”

I suspected there was more to it than a stomachache. His symptoms—depression, lethargy, lack of appetite, and irritability—started the day after his motorcycle club’s impromptu late-night meeting on the previous Thursday.

“You haven’t eaten anything or slept in a week,” I reasoned, my tone expressing my frustration with his refusal to see a doctor. “I’m surprised you’re not in the hospital already.”

“If I’m not better in a few days, I’ll go.”

I sat down across from him. “Promise?”

He sighed. “Yes.”

“If you’re not better by Tuesday.”

“Okay.”

He appeared to be defeated. Like he’d all but given up on life. For the most part, since we made love the first time, we’d spent every night together. One consistency was that he slept, and slept well, each night.

Now?

What little time he slept was interrupted by sudden wakeups, bouts of upset stomach, and oftentimes, me waking to find him scouring the internet on his phone.

His late-night fascination?

The news.

“A stomachache?” I asked. “Is that’s all that’s wrong?”

“Pretty much.”

“This isn’t going to work out very well if we don’t talk to one another,” I said. “I think there’s more to it than that. Remember, I’m the daughter of a detective.”

His posture straightened. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not stupid when it comes to things like human nature. You’re acting different. Something’s bothering you. I’m not saying your stomach isn’t. I’m just…I guess I’m saying that I think something else is causing it. It all seemed to start when you got back from that meeting with your MC last Friday morning. Since then you haven’t eaten or slept worth a damn. Your stomach problems are a result of whatever’s bothering you.”

He stared back at me, blankly.

I arched an eyebrow. “Well?”

“You’re partially right,” he admitted.

“Which part?”

“Pretty much all of it.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

His look softened. “I can’t.”

I was annoyed, and he could clearly see it. I rested my elbows on the table and looked into his weary eyes. “Can’t, or won’t?”