So at least he feels well enough to smile.
“You don’t have Ebola,” I say. “If you had Ebola, you’d already be—”
I stop myself before I say bleeding from the eyeballs and probably dead.
“—sicker,” I finish, glancing down at Rusty.
Rusty just glares up at her dad and lets out a long, annoyed sigh.
“Charlie’s gotta get off the porch before I let you in,” he says to her.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Seriously.”
“I can’t even come inside and make you Gatorade or something?”
“Away, Charlie.”
“You let Seth in.”
“Seth has a key,” he says. “Seth let himself in. Besides, if you miss the cake tasting Saturday…”
He trails off, one eyebrow arched, and even though he looks pretty rough at the moment, my stomach flutters.
Rusty shoves at the door again, this time leaning against it with one shoulder.
“Fine,” I tell Daniel. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” he says. “I’d give you a kiss, but…”
“You really don’t need to,” I laugh, and then I ruffle Rusty’s hair. “Later, kiddo.”
“Bye, Charlie! DAD NOW CAN I COME IN?”
I descend the porch steps as I hear the front door opening and Rusty’s little voice saying finally. Glancing over my shoulder, I see Daniel for a split second: white undershirt, gray sweatpants, bare feet.
Before he shuts the door, he looks up and sees me, standing twenty feet away, and waves.
Then he blows me a kiss. Laughing, I catch it, and he closes the door.Thursday:
“You’re not even contagious anymore.”
“Says you, a noted infectious disease expert.”
“Come on. I’ll bring you chicken soup.”
“Charlie, there’s so much chicken soup in the pantry here that I’d outlast the zombie apocalypse.”
I sigh.
“You don’t even need someone to hang out with Rusty?”
“Levi’s taking her to her piano lesson.”
“Does that have anything to do with the fact that June’s been at the Mountain Grind a lot lately?”
The Mountain Grind is two doors down from the Sprucevale School of Music.
Daniel snorts. I’m pretty sure he’s feeling better, but he swears that if I show up at his house, he won’t let me in.
“I’m not going to ask him that,” Daniel says. “Are you going to ask him that?”
I just laugh, because I think asking Levi that would result in a stone-faced denial that he’d ever met anyone with the name June.
“I’m not,” I say.Friday:
“You’re serious.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“You could see me tonight,” I point out.
It’s been five days since I saw him. Peeking through the door Wednesday doesn’t count. That’s five days of thinking nonstop about being pushed against a truck on Sunday night. Five days with the promise of more dangling over my head.
It’s five days of working on an antique table and carving staircase parts for some yacht and wondering what to wear Saturday.
It’s five days of quietly wondering if this is the universe giving me the signal that going there with Daniel is a bad idea. It doesn’t feel like a bad idea. It feels like a great idea. But deep down, there’s a part of me that’s afraid of change, afraid of taking the risk.
There’s that part of me that’s afraid that if I leap, I’ll be left with nothing.
On the other end of the phone, Daniel pauses. I know he went back to work today, so he’s at least that much better.
“Charlie, if I get you sick before tomorrow I will lose my goddamn mind,” he says, keeping his voice low. He’s in his office and I’m on my lunch break.
I swallow my piece of sandwich.
“You’re just that excited to taste cake with me?” I tease, even as my pulse picks up.
He just laughs.
“Sure,” he says. “I’m really excited to taste cake.”
Just then, one of my coworkers who also happens to be in the break room glances over.
I jump out of my chair so fast I nearly knock it over and walk out of the break room, into the empty back hallway, face flushing pink.
“You still there?” Daniel asks.
“Still here,” I say. “And you still haven’t given me a good reason I can’t come over tonight.”
“I threw up seven times in two days and sweated through all my bedsheets twice,” he says. “How’s that for a good reason?”
I sigh.
“And if there’s four more days when I can’t see you, I’m going to start flipping tables over from frustration,” he goes on.
I lean my head back against the wall, close my eyes.
“Don’t do that, someone worked hard on those.”
“I’m pretty sure my desk is from Ikea.”
“Then someone Swedish worked hard on that.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” he says. His voice is low, quiet, shiver-inducing. “And I won’t flip any tables.”
“All right,” I finally acquiesce, because despite being the most even-keeled Loveless brother, he can be stubborn as a goddamn pig-headed bull sometimes. “Tomorrow.”
“Ten?”
“Ten,” I confirm, we say goodbye, and we hang up.
I shove my phone into my pocket. I kick the cement floor once and make a face at it, because it’s there. I pack up the remnants of my lunch, put it back in the fridge, and go back to work.