“Do you have something that you can take?”
“I’ll be fine, Elliot, don’t worry,” she whispers, and it’s obvious she wants to get off the phone in a rush. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
I frown. Tomorrow . . . oh. “Are you at home yet?”
“Yeah, I caught a cab,” she whispers.
“Okay.”
“Goodbye.”
“Call me if you—”
She hangs up before I can finish my sentence.
Oh.
I sit back in my chair . . . Hmmm. I inhale and get back to work.
Two minutes later . . .
What if she takes one of those tablets again and falls down the stairs?
No, she said she wasn’t taking them anymore.
I remember how out of control she was last time, and I imagine her lifeless body at the bottom of the stairs. She wouldn’t be that stupid.
Would she?
I keep trying to work, but twenty minutes later I press my intercom. “Courtney.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m leaving for the day.”
“But . . . you have meetings all afternoon, sir.”
“Reschedule them.”
“Is everything alright, sir?”
“Everything’s fine,” I snap. I stand and put my suit jacket on. “I just need to go.”
I march into Christopher’s office. “I need your car.”
He glances up from his computer. “What for?”
“I’ve got to check on something.”
“Like what?”
I stare at him as I try to think of something. “There’s an emergency with the ducks.”
Fuck . . . I’m a bad liar.
Christopher’s eyes widen. “What happened?”
I shrug. “Um, they attacked the postman.”
He gasps. “They what?”
“Attacked the postman and he fell off his motorbike. It’s a terrible mess.”
He tips his head back and bursts out laughing. Loud and deep. “Oh my fuck, wait until the boys hear this.”
He hits speed-dial on his desk phone.
“Hey.” I hear Jameson’s voice.
Great, a conference call, just what I need.
“What’s doing??” I hear Tristan’s voice.
I hold my hand out. “Give me the fucking keys.”
“It gets better.” Christopher laughs. “His ducks attacked the postman and he fell off his motorbike.”
Tristan roars with laughter and I punch Christopher’s chest. “Give me the keys, prick.”
“Oh hell.” I hear Jameson sigh. “Get him a fucking gun already.”
I hold my hand out. “Keys.”
“I need my car tonight, I have a date,” Christopher snaps.
“You have four cars.”
“No.”
“I’ll have Andrew pick you up after work.”
“Why don’t you get Andrew to come now?”
“Because he will take too long. Keys,” I demand as I get to the last of my patience.
“Fine.” He hands them over. “Fuck off, I hope the postman sues you.”
“I can see the headline now,” Tristan says. “Death by duck.”
They all roar with laughter and I storm from the office.
Fuckers.
Twenty minutes later I knock on Kate’s door.
No answer.
I knock harder.
No answer.
I call her cell phone, it rings out.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mutter. I call her again.
“Hello,” she says sleepily.
“Open the door.”
“What?”
“I’m at your front door, can you walk down the stairs?”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“You are not fine, Kate. Open the fucking door.”
“Ugh.” She hangs up and moments later the door opens and she comes into view. “What are you doing here?”
Relieved, I take her into my arms. “I came to check on you.”
“I’m fine.” She turns to walk up the stairs and I follow her like a puppy. She climbs into her bed and pulls the blankets over herself.
I sit on the edge of the bed, unsure what to say.
“I just need to sleep.”
“Well.” I look around her room. “I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“Be careful, Elliot.” She smiles with her eyes closed. “You’re sounding very boyfriend-like.”
That’s ridiculous. I frown and stand; she stays still and I sit back down.
Fuck.
What do I do now?
For ten minutes I sit on the side of the bed as she sleeps.
Screw this.
“Kate.” I shake her. “What do you need? I’m packing you a bag.”
“Why?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are not fucking fine, Kathryn. Now shut up and tell me what you need,” I snap.
She pulls the blankets over her head. “Go. Away.”
“Fine, I’ll pack your bag then, myself.”
I go into her bathroom and grab her toiletry bag, I put her toothbrush and toothpaste inside. I grab her sanitary pads and tampons, and a packet of tablets. I look around her bathroom to see what else I need. There are two books on the side table. Is she reading this? I pick the top one up and see the flower that I picked her yesterday pressed between it and the other book.
She kept it.
I pick it up and stare at it in my hand. So many telling emotions rolled up into a flattened pink flower.
“What are you doing in there?” she calls.
“Cringing at the hair in your razor.”
The sound of her laugh makes me smile.
I carefully place her flower back where it was and make my way out. She lies on her back, looking up at me. “I’m packing you a bag and I’m taking you home.”
“This is my home.”
Is it?
You feel more at home at my home . . . or maybe it’s me that feels at home when you’re there. I swallow the lump in my throat, unable to answer her.