Maeve
No one was home. Yael had been gone for twenty-four hours, texting to say she was with an old friend and she’d be back tomorrow. I made her send me a proof of life, which ended up being a dick pic, and written alongside the penis I never asked for was Yael’s name in Sharpie, along with the date.
I’d replied, “Really? You couldn’t have sent me a tit or something?”
A couple minutes later, I became the proud owner of a close-up shot of what I assumed was Yael’s nipple.
I decided not to engage her any further. Knowing the color of her nipples was one thing, seeing her vulva was something else entirely, and it felt like that was the course we’d been running.
But now, I was sitting in her apartment with an aching back and a fever. We had the day off from rehearsal, so I could curl up on the couch and rest. The trouble with that plan was my back hurt too bad to get comfortable on her couch. I’d go lay in her bed, but I’d need to kill all the sex germs with fire first, and that was pretty much out of the question in my current condition.
I texted Mo and Murray, asking for a heating pad, but of course those fools were no use. I blamed my text to Santi on my vulnerable state. Normally, I wouldn’t ask him for anything, but my one-oh-one fever wasn’t exactly normal.
Santi:Why? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?
Me:Dying. Death, death, death.
Santi:Is Yael there? Is she taking care of you?
Me:I’m fully capable of taking care of myself.
Santi:I’m coming over. Just...don’t die until I get there.
Me:Then I can die? Because I feel like I’m dying.
Santi:Yeah, then you can die. No one wants to die alone, right?
Me:Aw, so damn thoughtful.
Santi:Stop texting so I can get out of my house.
Me:I’m a little delirious. You might have to be the one to stop.
He did stop, and I let myself doze off, dreaming of cherubs swimming in chocolate, throwing marshmallows at each other. My lovely dream was interrupted by violent pounding on the door.
This was one of those situations where, as a woman, my fight or flight response wanted to kick in. Only, in this case, it was more like faint or flight—there would be no fighting.
“Maeve,” Santi bellowed through the door.
Oh. Right. Him.
Slowly, I got to my feet, holding my aching back the entire journey to the door. Unlocking it took more effort than I had to spare, so by the time it swung open, I was slumped against the wall, willing myself not to give in to temptation and cry.
“What the hell?” Santi gritted out. “Where’s Yael?”
“Gone fucking.” I giggled at my own joke, slowly sliding down the wall. Before I could fall on my butt, Santi’s hands came under my arms, holding me up.
“You’re burning up. Did you take Tylenol?”
“Uh…a while ago. I think I’m due for another dose.”
He all but carried me to the couch, and when he helped me sit, I winced. Sitting did not feel great, which might turn out to be a problem, given my profession.
He kneeled in front of me, careful not to touch me. “Are you hurt? Is that why you need the heating pad?”
“Yes,” I confessed. “My lower back is all kinds of jacked up, and this fever is not helpin’ matters.”
“The air mattress?”