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The pile of tissues should be the first clue, but it’s the glassy eyes and the cough that she lets out.
I lift the keys.
“You have a key to my apartment?” I raise an eyebrow. I feel like that much is obvious. “How do you have a key to my apartment?”
“I bought the door. Bought the lock.”
“And?”
“Came with two keys. I kept one.”
She opens her mouth to argue, eyes wide with shock and frustration.
It’s fucking cute.
“You kept my spare ke—”
And then she sneezes, her nose scrunching and the sound almost chipmunk-like. I should have expected that even this woman’s sneezes would be cute. I reach over to the tissue box next to her and hand it over.
“What’s going on, sweet girl?” I say. Now that my anxiety has simmered, my empathy is here. The poor woman is a fucking mess, clearly sick as a dog.
“Thank you,” she says, taking a tissue and blowing her nose. “You should go. I’m sick.”
“No shit.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“Babe, what do you expect? You’re sneezing and coughing and your nose is bright red. You’re in a pile of blankets in July and watching—” I turn my head to check the television. “Toy Story?”
“It’s a comfort movie, thank you very much. Now please leave.”
“Your comfort movie features a clearly mentally unstable kid who burns ants and mutilates dolls being tormented by his own toys?”
“Go away, Ben. What are you even doing here?”
“I needed to see if you were okay. You weren’t answering your phone for me or Hat, and the bakery was closed.” Guilt floods her eyes, and she looks toward the kitchen where I see her phone, the light blinking.
“Sorry.” She cringes, and I reach over, grabbing the phone and handing it to her. “Fuck. I’m sorry.” She sees the missed calls, mine and Hattie’s, and knowing her, probably others.
Her dad’s. Or his fucking associates or who the fuck ever likes to give her trouble.
“It’s fine,” I say, moving my hand to brush her hair aside.
She’s burning up.
“Well, you’ve seen I’m fine. You should go. I’m contagious.”
“What is it?”
“The flu. Got tested last night and feel like a train hit me this morning. Probably got it up in Springbrook Hills. I’ve been off since then. I’m hoping a day or two with the prescription will be good. I can’t stay closed long . . .” She drifts off, no longer here in her apartment but somewhere else, probably doing money math and trying to figure out loss of income and subtracting her fucking dipshit dad’s debts.
We need to bump figuring that out up in our priority list. But first . . .
“What do you need?” I say, pulling out my own phone and sitting on the ottoman next to the couch. “I’ll call Hattie, get her to deliver it.”
“You should leave,” she says instead.
“What?”
