“I have your pain meds in your bag if you need,” he offers, his voice low.
“I don’t want medication. I want to be able to go to my own apartment without needing your help or needing pills. I hate that I can’t even get up the stairs. I am an independent person.”
“I don’t doubt you,” Charles says, moving out of the way for someone to pass.
“But I can’t do it. I can’t take the stairs. What am I going to do when I have to take the trash out or go to work or get food?” My voice breaks and fresh tears start. Through my blurry vision, I think I spot devastation on Charles’ face but the look is quickly gone so I’m not sure if it was ever there in the first place. We’re creating a traffic jam; people are trying to ascend or descend the stairs.
“Hey man, get out of the way,” a guy trying to climb the stairs growls.
“Just a second,” Charles says, not even looking over his shoulder. “What do you want right now?” He stares directly into my eyes.
“I just want to go home.” I start to cry again and cover my face with my hands. I feel like I’m collapsing into myself. I don’t see him move, too lost in my own grief. I feel an arm snake under my legs, hooking under my knees, and another arm around my back. He pulls me to his firm chest and I grip his shirt, hiding my face in it. He’s careful maneuvering me around the turns, taking the stairs two at a time until we get to my apartment.
I expect Charles to put me down, but he slides the key into the lock. His hands are full with me, so he uses his foot to push the door open and if I wasn’t getting snot all over his shirt, I might be turned on, but I’m in so much pain, so tired that I just hold tighter to him.
He kicks the door shut behind him, setting me onto the couch. He brushes a strand of hair from my face so he can look me in the eye. This is such an intimate gesture that I melt for a moment. He’s squatting in front of me, this six-foot-something man who is pure muscle.
“I’m going to grab your crutches. I’ll be right back. Don’t run away on me,” he says, trying to tease me and make light. I chuckle despite myself and this seems to be all he needs before he stands and leaves me alone in this unfamiliar place.
Charles isn’t gone for long, but it gives me a chance to really look around the apartment that is apparently mine. It’s small and feels impersonal. The couch, a dark blue loveseat from Ikea with light blue piping around the edges, is nothing special. My TV is resting on a small entertainment stand with DVDs and picture frames on it. The whole space is shockingly sparse. There are a few pictures of nothing special hanging on the walls. There is one of Paris depicting the Arc de Triomphe and another that features rows of flowers in Amsterdam, I think.
Charles opens the door and I notice that he’s breathing a little heavily now. I think scaling those steps would wind anyone regardless of how fit. He leans against the door, a sweet smile on his face as he looks at me. I hate to think of what he must see looking at me, how my cast extends forward; I must look like this broken thing. Thisbroken thingthat needs saving. Thisbroken thingto be pitied.
“What do you think about medication now?”
I scowl at him but hold out my hand, surprised that it’s shaking. I don’t want to need meds, but I need the pain to stop.
“Do you want me to beg?” I snap, my anger surfacing.
“No, Elia, I don’t.” He sounds sad, pushing off the wall to get a cup. I wonder if I’m pushing him too hard with my out of control emotions. Charles has been a safe place for me to take out my anger and I’m afraid that maybe I’m hitting his limit. He opens a few of the cabinets, looking inside. I turn to watch him, seeing the nearly empty shelves. From my spot on the couch, I can see just two glasses and a mug before Charles closes the cabinet, cup in hand.
I take the pill he hands me, down it with the water and wait for it to take effect.
“Sorry the place is a mess,” I say, a frown tugging my lips downward.
“If this were a Spend The Night rental, which it looks like, I would probably give you zero stars. Terrible host, dirty, no dishes, and poor movie choices. What are these? Are they porn or slasher movies?” Charles squats in front of the TV to get a better look at the movies I have. The way he tugs his pants up before dropping into a squat makes my heart race, and I admire his ass all the way down. I can blame the racing heart on my medication, but not the way my eyes follow him. Charles holds up one of the DVD’s,Sorority Girls Nightmare: Wet T-Shirts with Blood.
“That’s not even clever.” I snort, looking at the cover where coeds with big tits are fake screaming as they’re sprayed with blood instead of water.
“I didn’t take you for the type,” Charles teases as he crosses the room to sit next to me on the couch. It's the closest we’ve been seated. I spent more time in the hospital bed, him across from me, than anywhere else.
The DVD collection is surprising. Can a person really change that much in five years that I wouldn’t even recognize myself?
“I’m not.Titanicis too suspenseful for me to watch. And forget blood. It’s probably for the best that I was unconscious after you hit me.” I mean my words to be light, but from his visible flinch, they weren’t. I can’t take the words back now though.
“Come back with me. Stay at my place. Please.”
I look into his brown eyes, not wanting to give up my independence. There is a different look in his eyes, not pity, not desire, but hope. Maybe heisjust as lonely as I am. Or maybe he has a savior complex and he gets off on it. “But what if you’re a serial killer?” I ask, leaning back against the couch.
He smiles, eyes marking every cut and bruise on my face. “Then it’s already too late because we’re alone in your apartment.” His voice drops into an intentionally deep timbre when he speaks.
I laugh at his teasing. “Then I make a pretty easy mark, huh? You already know no one would miss me.”
I’m quiet for a moment watching Charles analyze the room like he would a problem. “I always said if I was on my own I would at least get a cat to keep me company. I told my friend who I lived with that if she was moving in with her boyfriend that would mean Ihadto get a cat, but it would be a poor replacement for her. She wanted me to name it after her. I wonder why I didn’t get one.”
“Maybe because pets are hard?” Charles muses, handing me an ice pack wrapped in a musty towel before diving into cleaning out my fridge. When I try to get up to help him, he pins me back to the couch with a look.
“Play with your tablet or something,” he says, turning his head away from the sink where he is pouring sour milk down the drain.