A Five-Minute Life

“The ArtHouse,” Jimmy said, reading the marquee. “Of course.”

“It’s kind of my theme,” I said with a grin.

The room was cozy and clean and had a partial view of the park.

And a king-sized bed.

“Oh my God, we are going to have so much sex on this bed,” I said, kicking off my sandals and jumping up and down on the king-sized mattress. “Come here, Jimmy.”

I suddenly needed to hold him, he seemed so far away. He moved to where I stood on the mattress and wordlessly slid his arms around my waist. He kissed my middle, breathing hotly through the thin cotton of my shirt. I wrapped my arms around his head, holding him close, raking my fingers through his hair.

“You’re a good man. I want to be a good woman for you.”

“You are,” he said gruffly.

I shook my head. “I’m going to take care of you,” I said, trailing my hands over his shoulders and down his chest. “You’ve taken care of me for months, and now it’s my turn.”

He stiffened in my arms.

“What is it?” I asked. “And don’t say nothing.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not used to being taken care of.”

“I got that,” I said softly. “I saw your face when I brought you a bunch of napkins. Just napkins…”

He started to answer when his eyes widened. “Holy shit, your medication,” he said. “Did you remember to get it from the safe at the other hotel?”

I froze and turned my face into a perfect mask of oh shit. My eyes widened and my lips parted.

“Fuck.” His face went white, and he tore his hand through his hair. “We have to go back. N-N-Now…”

“Jimmy, wait,” I said, reaching for his sleeve. “I’m kidding. I have it. I grabbed it after I found our new hotel. You were probably in the shower. It’s in my backpack.”

He stared at me for a solid ten seconds then tore his hand from mine. “The fuck, Thea?”

“What…? I-I’m sorry,” I said, my heart pounding as liquid guilt surged through my veins, sludgy and thick. “I’m so sorry, Jimmy. It was a joke. I—”

“A b-b-bad fucking joke.” I could see the frustration ratchet up with the return of his stutter. He hadn’t stuttered once since we arrived in New York.

I jumped off the bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think I’d be scared shitless for you? Or you d-d-didn’t think at all?”

“The second one,” I said in a

small voice. “It’s what I do. When things get heavy, my instinct is to go for the joke. To lighten the mood. I’m so sorry.”

He stared at me again, his brows drawn tight, then he turned away, hands on his hips. “It’s fine. I’m just… tired.”

“It’s not fine and you don’t have to be tired to be mad,” I said, slipping into his arms. “You should be mad at me if I do stupid shit. We’ll still be okay. And I promise to think before I do any more stupid shit. And then not do it.”

He nodded stiffly and pulled away. “It’s early yet,” he said. “Let’s go out to… wherever you want to go next.”

“Wait, Jimmy. We should talk.”

“About what? I freaked out, and you apologized. Nothing to talk about.”

“You’ve been off and on, all day,” I said. “Sometimes right here with me, and sometimes a million miles away. Or even angry with me.”