I try to seem unruffled.
“I came to see you,” I say.
“How did you get here?” he asks – again the same question from the other night, which is not helping me stay calm but again, I try.
“I took a cab.”
Something about that makes him clamp his jaw and stare at me severely. “What the fuck are you thinking? You just got out of the hospital. You’re supposed to be resting. You’re supposed to be getting better.”
Despite all my attempts to stay unaffected, I fist my hands at my sides. “I got out of the hospital two weeks ago. It was a minor blood sugar thing. I am better.”
“If you keep running around town like this, you won’t be. You’re not supposed to stress yourself out. That’s what the doctor said, didn’t he?”
“How do you know what the doctor said? You were never there.”
At this, a resigned look comes over his face. “That’s not the point.”
“Did Leah tell you?”
He remains silent but I get my answer and then fuck being calm.
Fuck being collected.
“So you’ve been talking about me to Leah. But you haven’t come to see me.”
Because I’m mad about it.
I’m mad, okay?
Like, he’ll leave me letters every day. He’ll talk to me through them but he won’t come to see me.
And I have waited.
Every. Day.
Every single day that he left me a letter in the mailbox, I actually waited for him to knock at the door. I waited for him to come see me, talk to me, tell me why.
So many times I wanted to catch him in the act myself. I wanted to set up camp at my window and intercept him when he came to deliver the letters.
But I stopped myself.
Because I’ve begged enough and I was giving him a chance to come clean.
To tell me.
Now I find out that he’s talking about me to Leah.
How cruel of him to do that.
How unkind of him that he’d rather drive me crazy with all these emotions and questions than come talk to me himself.
He sighs then, plowing his fingers through his hair. “Come inside.”
I glare at him for a few seconds and he returns it with a calm but somewhat heavy look. Then, I do go inside.
Because I need answers.
But unlike last time when I was careful to keep my distance from him while entering, I touch him.
Well actually, I bump his chest with my shoulder as I pass him by.
Because I’m angry and I want him to feel it.
His only reaction though is a soft inhale, like he’s smelling me or something.
But I refuse to think about it.
I refuse to think about him taking a whiff of me or how heated his body felt or how long it’s been since I touched him.
I absolutely refuse to wonder about anything related to him anymore.
But I break that promise a second later when I get my first look at his room.
I halt in my tracks and run my eyes across the space that I’ve been in so many times. The space that I remember every inch of.
It has always been so clean and organized and neat.
Right now though, it’s the opposite of that.
Sheets are crumpled; pillows are strewn about. His gray blanket lies on the floor as if he’s had a fight with it and threw it away in disgust. Discarded clothes make a tiny hill by the bathroom door.
And there are books. Everywhere.
On the bed; on the floor.
Some are wide open; some are closed. Some are stacked together in a large pile on the desk and in his slim-backed chair.
Since when does he read books?
Since when does he not clean his room?
“What happened?” I breathe out, looking around, my heart picking up speed.
“I just… didn’t clean up. Wasn’t expecting company,” he says from behind me and I spin around to face him.
He’s by the door, standing with his feet apart and his fists clenched, watching me.
“Since when do you not clean up?”
“Since my therapist said that I might have a mild case of OCD,” he replies. “She wants me to embrace the chaos.”
“Your therapist?” I breathe out, thinking of all the times he implied that he hated going to her. “The one… you don’t like.”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine. “I think I was a little hasty in my judgement.”
“So you like her now?”
“I’m still deciding.”
I look around the room again, feeling stunned. “Did she also tell you to read books?”
He narrows his eyes. “No, she told me to get a life.” I frown and he continues, “Apparently, I don’t have one. Well, if you don’t count soccer. And having a life involves a thing called hobbies. She told me to pick one.”
“So you picked reading?”
“It would appear so, yes.”
He runs his fingers through his hair again and messes it up, making the strands fall on his forehead, making me clench my fists again so I don’t accidentally run to him and smooth them away.