“No, you’re burning up. We need to get you to a doctor.”
“It’s almost Friday night. What are the chances of that happening? I need to go to bed.”
The trip home is pretty bad. I’m trapped in an endless, unmarked period of time. I’m a bug in a jar being shaken by a kid. The bus is swaying, hot, airless, and I feel every bump and curve. I focus on my breathing and the feeling of Joshua’s arm pressed against mine. At one particularly sharp corner he uses his shoulder to support me upright in my seat.
“Why?” I ask uselessly. I feel him shrug.
We’re unloaded in front of B&G. A few women cluster around me and I try to understand what they’re saying. Joshua is holding me by the scruff of my damp T-shirt and tells them it’s fine.
He has a lively debate with Danny, who keeps asking me, “Are you sure?”
“Of course she’s fucking sure,” Joshua thunders. Then we’re alone.
“Did you drive?”
“Jerry needs another weekend. The mechanic. I’ll get a bus.”
He moves me forward; a heaving, sweating marionette. My mouth tastes like acid. His grip drops from my neck to loop a finger into the loop on the back of my jeans, the other on my elbow. I can feel his knuckle pressing above my butt crack and I laugh out loud.
The stairs to the basement parking lot are steep and I balk, but he pushes me on, hands tightening. He uses his swipe card to get us in and steers me steadily toward his black car. I can smell car fumes and oil. I can smell everything. I dry-retch behind a pole and he hesitantly lays a hand between my shoulder blades. He rubs it around a little. I shudder through another volley of nausea.
Joshua guides me to the passenger seat. He slings the bag I’d forgotten about into the backseat. He idles the car and I glimpse myself in a side mirror, my head rolled to the side, a dark flush on my cheekbones, gleaming with sweat, my mascara smudged.
“Now. Are you gonna be sick in the car, Shortcake?” He doesn’t sound impatient, or annoyed. He opens my window a few inches.
“No. Maybe. Well, possibly.”
“Use this if you need to,” he tells me, handing me an empty takeout coffee cup. He puts the car into reverse. “Tell me where to go, then.”
“Go to hell.” I start laughing again.
“So that’s where you came from.”
“Shuddup. Go left.” I navigate him to my apartment building. I keep my eyes closed, and count my breaths, and do not vomit. It is quite an achievement.
“Here. Out front is fine.”
He shakes his head and in defeat I direct him to my empty parking space. He has to help me climb out of the car and I sag against him. My cheek momentarily rests on something like his chest. My hand grips something like his waist.
He hits the button and we stand at opposite sides of the elevator car, and the Staring Game is overlaid with hot, sweaty memories of the last time we did this together.
“Your eyes were like a serial killer that day.” I must have vomited out my filter.
“So were yours.”
“I like your T-shirt. So much. It’s magnificent on you.”
He’s mystified as he looks down at himself. “It’s nothing special. I . . . like yours too. It’s as big as a dress.”
The elevator doors opens. I lurch out. Unfortunately, he follows.
“I’m here,” I lean on my door. He digs my keys from my bag and unlocks the door.
I’ve never seen anyone so desperate to be invited inside. His head pokes in farther. His hands are hanging on to the doorframe like he’s about to fall in.
“It’s not what I expected. It’s not very . . . colorful.”
“Thank you, good-bye.” I push into the kitchen and seize a glass. Then I drink straight from the faucet.