To Have and to Hate

I drop my arms immediately back to my sides. My pajama top falls back into place. I’m blushing as I turn away.

“Would you like to continue our conversation from last night?” he asks suddenly.

My spine straightens.

Oh, now he wants to talk? Now, after what he did last night?

“No. I think we’ve said all that needs to be said, don’t you think?”

“Right.” I glance behind me to see him push away from the island and step back. “Then I’ll be in my office.”

I watch him leave, one hand thrust in the pocket of his sweats, the other rubbing the back of his head like he’s frustrated.

Welcome to the club, buddy!

We all are!

I work tirelessly in the library all day, grateful I have so much work to distract me. Music drifts in from Walt’s office, but I don’t mind. In fact, a few of the lyric-less songs I really like. I’d almost forget he’s the man behind the music if not for a newly developed cough he seems to have. At first, I almost think he’s doing it on purpose, a little bit of psychological warfare, but by Sunday morning, his cough has taken on a life of its own.

“You’re sick,” I tell him from the doorway to his office.

He’s standing behind his desk in a different set of sweats from the day before. These are gray, and his shirt is white. The shadows under his eyes are darker than yesterday. I bet he hasn’t slept a wink.

“It’s allergies,” he says, focusing down on some papers.

“Allergies. Right.”

“I don’t get sick,” he tells me insistently.

I nearly laugh. Instead, I just turn away.

A few hours later, I wander by his office door again to find him tipped back in his chair rubbing his closed eyes. He looks like he has the world’s worst headache.

“Allergies, huh?”

His eyes spring open and he glances over to where I stand, arms crossed, shoulder leaning against the doorframe.

He tips forward in his chair and attempts to get back to work.

“Yes. There’s probably something blowing in as we speak. Birch. Cedar.” He waves his hands as if to say, Et cetera.

“Yes, or perhaps it’s the common cold.”

“Are you going to stand there all day and mock me?”

I hum like I’m considering it, then I leave him to it.

The cough only gets worse, and soon it’s accompanied by a delightfully annoying case of the sniffles.

Around 3:00, I drop my pastels, wash my hands, and leave the apartment for the market. I gather up lots of fresh vegetables as well as all the other fixings for homemade chicken noodle soup. By the time I make it back, Walt has his head down on his desk.

I can’t take it anymore.

I walk in and poke him in the back. “Let’s go. Come on.”

“Leave me,” he says, sitting up. “I’m fine.”

I point to the mountain of tissues in the trash. “No. You’re not.”

Then I wheel his chair around and press my palm to his forehead. Just as expected, it’s piping hot.

“You’re burning up.”

His brown eyes stare up at me, and for the first time ever, he doesn’t intimidate me. In fact, he looks more like a sad puppy at the moment than a harsh businessman.

“I run hot,” he says in an attempt to cast off my suspicions about his fever.

“Uh-huh. What a medical marvel you must be. Now come on.” I wave for him to get up off the chair, and when he doesn’t, I tap his shin with my toe. “Don’t make me try to lift you. I’ll throw out my back and then we’ll both be moaning and groaning.”

“I haven’t been moaning.”

“Oh please! You should hear yourself. It’s like you’re on your death bed.”

Men. Seriously.

With a sigh, he stands, and I prod him along toward the great room. I already have a nice setup going with a blanket and a pillow.

He lies down, looks slightly confused, then turns to sniff the pillow under his head.

He looks up at me, almost in wonder.

“This is your pillow.”

I frown. “Yeah. I didn’t want to go into your room, but I can go get yours if you—”

“No,” he says, cutting me off with a tone that’s almost harsh.

“Oh…kay. Then just lie there and watch TV while I make you soup.”

“What kind?”

“Chicken noodle,” I call back as I walk away.

It doesn’t take long. I chop everything up, toss it into the pot, and leave it to simmer while I cut up a crusty baguette. While the soup continues to cook, I go in search of medicine for Walt. He’s snoozing on the couch so I don’t wake him up. I figure he won’t mind the slight invasion of privacy if it’s for his own good. At the threshold of his bedroom, I waver as if I’m about to break some kind of law. It’s silly. I step inside and peer over at his unmade bed. The sheets look decadently soft. His pillow still carries the indent from his head. I inhale, and my chest fills with the scent of Walt. I love it. It’s like the room is saturated in him.