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I had no idea why.
I managed to survive until five-ish, when I gave up and rolled down to the gym. Did weights until my arms screamed. Ran with my lines thundering through my head. Went over some choreography for a fight scene using the punch bag as my prop.
I tried not to look for him, knowing full well he was probably right here in the room. I wasn’t going to make things weird. Things weren’t weird anyway. Were they? People went out for food all the time. Friends went out and had chats.
I’d punched him in the face.
Old news. We were over that. Weren’t we?
I was going nuts, and I knew it. I went and had a good, long shower. Sat in the steam room. Stewed in thoughts I didn’t want to think. My normal gym routine usually perked me up, yet all I wanted to do was close my eyes, go to sleep right here on the bench with a towel around my waist.
My head lolled, and I shivered as I tried to stand up, only to half faceplant into a wall.
I saved myself at the last second and carefully straightened up, taking long, slow breaths to try to get some oxygen to my head as I walked as normally as I could to the changing room. Fuck. I was not doing this. I was not coming down with something.
“Hi!”
Matt. Of course. Towel around his waist. Hair wet. Looking…
“Hey.” My head swam. My wet body broke out in goosebumps as I tried to drag on a shirt. My hands shook, and my mouth was bone dry.
“Here,” he said, tugging my T-shirt down over my shoulders. “You OK?”
I was usually the one too much in people’s faces, but here he was, right next to me, his hand on my forehead.
“You’re burning up. You’re not OK, are you?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
He was too close. I was a mess. My eyes were too heavy to keep open, and I was cold. So bloody cold.
“Con? Look. Get some clothes on, and I’ll get you some paracetamol, I have some in my bag, I’m sure.”
Clothes. I grappled something out of my bag, but I couldn’t get my body to cooperate. I felt like death. Truly.
“I don’t…” I started. “I think I need to go home.”
“You’re not going home,” Matt stated, holding up a blister packet of pills. “Here. Two of these babies should have your temp down. It’s just paracetamol. You’re not allergic, are you? Any health issues?”
He was holding up the packet, but my eyes wouldn’t focus.
“I can’t…go out…like this. Dinner…”
“Hey,” he said, again, but quietly now, his face so close to mine, a faint flash of bruising still visible on his cheek. I reached out and stroked it.
“You don’t need dinner. You need sleep. Period.”
“If I can just…” I couldn’t even speak. What the hell was happening to me? There were bitter pills in my mouth and water being forced down my throat. I drank it. Then I felt sick.
“Is he OK?” Someone else in my space.
“He’s fine. He’s just overdone it.”
Matt pulled a hoodie over my head. I wasn’t wearing any underpants. Or was I? There was a sock in my hand, and I managed to put it on. Then a shoe. Someone tied my laces. Dark curls under my fingers as I tried to steady myself.
I hated being out of control. I hated being sick. Everyone on set had been sick, and now it was apparently my turn. I tried to stand up.
“Whoa, big boy, take a seat. One more shoe.”
