You and Me (5 page)

"It's so much easier to cut people open the first chance you get. But not before pumping them full of drugs. All of that should be an absolute last resort."

"I disagree."

"Then you must agree that we're not compatible," I say, cool as a cucumber.
 

Fundamental and irreconcilable differences that led to the demise of our almost, could've been, wedding. The one I planned entirely in my head, minutes into our initial meeting. There are no refunds for imaginary weddings. And I've gone way over budget.

His hesitation comes in the form of a small exhale. "Look, look at my dimples. Don't they make up for this small difference? Not even a little bit?"

His smile is genuine and charming, and I nearly liquefy in front of the sexy sonofabitch. I'm not at all in control of the way I smile back. Because, damn him, he can obliterate an ovary with a flash of those pearly whites. And those dimples? They make it hard to dislike him. Really, really hard. No. Not hard, impossible.
 

But there's something I need him to understand, maybe then he can begin to glimpse why this is more than just a matter of setting aside my pride.

"My ex was a pediatric surgeon," I say. "He sat across from me every day with the same look of thinly veiled tolerance that you have right now. He belittled my career path, on nearly a daily basis. Sometimes accidentally, sometimes on purpose. Sometimes I hated him, if I'm being honest. Most of the time, I couldn't stand his elitist attitude, which—no offense—I'm starting to think is a trademark of surgeons. It ended pretty badly. So, you can understand why I'm not exactly thrilled to have a repeat of the whole situation. Considering the fact that you managed to light a warning flare ten minutes into us meeting, why shouldn't this disagreement be a deal breaker?"
 

"
Was
a surgeon?" he asks, eyebrow perking up. "Did you kill him or something? Is that why you're referring to him as if he died?"

"When you shut someone out of your life, sometimes it's easier to pretend they're dead. Easier in relation to actually making them dead, I guess."

"I was right about you all along, freckles. Or should I say, murderess?"
 

I cross my arms over my chest, not liking his attempt to deflect the entire situation. He's all but dismissed everything I've told him, proving that he doesn't take any of it seriously. Proving that he doesn't take
me
seriously.
 

"I'm glad you find this all so hilarious."

The trace of amusement in his pale blues wanes. He fixes me with a steely gaze, analytical and almost surgical.

"I can't seem to keep my foot out of my mouth with you," he says. "I was supposed to buy you lunch, make you laugh, and you were supposed to decide you wanted to sleep with me."

"I think I've successfully proven this isn't going anywhere near your bed."

"Kale soup?" the server asks, appearing out of nowhere to set down bowls in front of each of us.

"We'll take the check," I say.

"Just like that?" Jackson asks, eyes on me.

I bite my lip and shrug my shoulders in a silent, '
Just like that
.'

Jackson doesn't let me pay for our non-date, and then we get up to go our separate ways. Except we don't. We're trapped in the uncomfortable aftermath of cool goodbyes that transform into a silent walk in the same direction. I watch my handsome neighbor walk past me to reach his own apartment door, and my stomach aches with something that I'm sure has nothing to do with hunger anymore. In the light of day, it all feels childish now. My desire to scare him off. The game I've won.
 

Because I did win.
 

I got exactly what I wanted and, at the same time, I got none of it.
 

CHAPTER FIVE

Samantha

FRANTIC POUNDING AT MY door makes me sit upright. I look around, confused by the blue glow of the television and the otherwise empty living room.

Another round of incessant knocking reminds me of what woke me in the first place. I drag myself up off the couch and rush to the door. Peering through the peephole, I see Heath standing out in the hall, glancing at his watch. He tentatively reaches for the doorbell, seemingly unsure if he should press it, but I manage to yank the door open before he has a chance.

He freezes and pulls back from the buzzer, visibly relieved to see me. I'm not sure what's more alarming, the fact that Heath is knocking at my door at four in the morning, or that he's fully dressed, grasping the handle of a small suitcase.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," he says, not sounding very sorry. "My brother's dying and I have to be at the airport in thirty minutes."

Groggy from sleep, I squint, his words barely registering. "You need a ride to the airport?"
 

He smiles. "That's sweet. But no, I have a cab waiting. My issue is the first part of my statement. The part about my brother dying."

I shake my head, still not understanding him. "What? Your brother's what?"

He hands me a key. "Look, you've got a duty to Mother Earth or whatever to tend to the sick, right? Go deal with him because I'm pretty sure I'll be coming back to a shriveled up corpse if I just leave him alone like that."

"But wait—"

"Great, thanks," he says. And with the key securely in my hand, Heath heads down the hall without so much as a glance back.

I'm not sure how long I stand frozen, staring after him, but it's probably way longer than I should considering Jackson is dying.

I groan, then head down the hall to their apartment. I knock on the door a few times, no answer. I ring the doorbell, still no answer. Finally, I unlock his door and peer around it. His living room is pitch-black, and something about the darkness, the stillness of the apartment, gives me the overwhelming sensation of needing to keep quiet. Feeling very much like a cat burglar, I tiptoe inside.

"Jackson?" I call out, barely louder than a whisper.

No answer.

For the first time, real worry creeps in. Heath wouldn't have left his brother in real danger, would he?

I pass through the living room and approach the door to the left of the bathroom, which, from the layout of my own apartment, I know to be the master bedroom. Brushing away my reluctance, I push open the bedroom door. The dim orange glow from a bedside lamp illuminates the room. Jackson sits at the head of the bed, a large blanket thrown over his body, and his face lit up by the screen of the phone in his hands. Seeing him there, this typically pompous man all curled up like a little boy, tugs at my maternal instincts. He looks so sweet, so very miserably sweet.
 

The door creaks as I ease it open and his gaze darts up to mine. I freeze, feeling entirely out of place by just walking into his apartment and now his room. But my appearance doesn't seem to surprise Jackson. In fact, he looks a little relieved.

"I told him not to get you," he says.

Not only is his typically playful voice dull and nasally, the whites of his eyes lean toward red, an eerie contrast to his bright blues.
 

"What's wrong with you?" I stand at the doorway, arms crossed, eyeing him like I could very well decide to walk out any moment.
 

He snatches a handful of tissues from the box beside him and blows his nose loudly. Then he groans and looks up at me with self-conscious delay. I'm not sure he even realizes his eyes are round or that his brows tilt up in an earnest plea. In his stuffed-up voice, he says, "Leave me. Go on without me. Just let me die."

CHAPTER SIX

Jackson

I TELL HER TO go, but I want her to stay.
 

Her bright face is the best thing I've seen all day. Even if her eyes are brimming with humor and only traces of sympathy. It doesn't matter. Suffering is just better when there's a witness.
 

"Is it the man cold?" She lowers her voice conspicuously. "It's the man cold, isn't it?"

"Don't come too close," I tell her even as she approaches. "I don't want to get you sick."

She just nods gravely and sits on the bed beside me, facing me. She sets her palm to my forehead, and I resist the urge to shut my eyes. Her touch feels good, cool and refreshing, but I keep my eyes on her face. Because even in this shitty state, I'm fascinated by having her features this close up. Closer than ever before. Her lashes are thick, her freckles crisp but scarce, like stars in a city sky. And her lips, so perfect I have the impulse to run my thumb over them, to trace them.

"What's the worst symptom?" she asks. "Congestion? Body aches? Headache?"

I nod at each one, silently thanking God it's my day off.

"Everything hurts. I'm pretty sure I'm dying."

"Well, the man cold is notoriously deadly."

"You hexed me," I accuse, pulling the covers tighter around me, cocooning myself.

The corners of her lips pull up. "Do you want me to leave you here to die? Or do you want me to help?"

I narrow my eyes at her, enjoying the way she's looking at me, like the way women sometimes look at pets or small children. I didn't ever think I would care to receive this kind of adoration from a woman I want to sleep with so badly. But here I am, wanting nothing more than to be doted on by this beautiful sorceress.
 

"Can you make it stop, freckles?"
 

She looks to be on the verge of a snicker. "I'll see what I can do, dimples."

Samantha brings me water and watches as I drink it all, then leaves to retrieve some things from her apartment. I remain under the blanket cocoon, shivering periodically at the wisp of cold air that seems to travel down my spine. My bones hurt, my head feels like it's going to explode from the pressure in my sinuses. I have the inexplicable desire to groan for long periods of time, which I manage to fight while Samantha is around, but just barely.

She makes me tea, which is tart and hot enough to burn my esophagus, but I drink it because she tells me to. Because she looks a little scary when I try to refuse, and because I'm dying, anyway.

She forces me to inhale steam that smells like earth and lemon and mint. And I do it. Because the sensation of hot air traveling through my nostrils turns out to be oddly soothing.

And because I'm dying, anyway.

As she goes to leave me again, I say, "You should get me a bell, in case I need you."

Her glare is a little playful and a lot sexy. And I smile my most innocent of smiles in return.

When she comes back, she brings with her a soup, which could also be the result of a flood hitting the produce section of the grocery store. But it's surprisingly good. The vegetables so soft they melt in my mouth, the flavors mildly spicy and exotic, reminding me of something I might have eaten a long, long time ago, back when I was a kid. Back at my grandmother's house.

"What time is it?" I ask, noticing that the light of my bedside lamp has become redundant to the increasingly brightening room.
 

There's a clock on my nightstand, but the act of shifting my body enough to check it might just break me in half.

"Nine thirty," she replies.

"Don't you have work?"
 

"I called off."

My mouth parts in reply but the words don't come out.
 

She called off work…for me? To stay here with me and look after me?

"You didn't have to do that," is all I can think to say.

"You're clearly dying and it's breaking my heart."

She leans in and plants a kiss on my cheek. I'm not sure why such a chaste move takes me off guard. Why it feels like more than it is. Why a pang of regret like I've never experienced before runs through me when I don't grab her face and kiss her lips instead. But I don't grab her face. I don't kiss her lips.
 

Because I'm dying.

Except, I'm not anymore. As I sit here, my body aches are all but gone and I can breathe. And when she leaned in to kiss my cheek, I was able to catch the faint trace of vanilla from her hair. A scent which seems to linger close to me.