Mr. Rich Page 12

  I kiss her neck, her shoulder, her ear. I don’t want to part from her. But I know she’s uncomfortable, so I pull out of her and let her go. She doesn’t move for a few moments, though. She’s still breathing hard, her entire body flushed from the exertion.

  I’m sweaty and gasping for air, too. I pull the condom off and shove it into a trash can in the corner before getting dressed. Julia’s watching me now, her eyes wide, and I wince inwardly.

  Did I hurt her? I wonder. She seems like she’s in shock, and it worries me. I take her hands and rub her fingers.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, kissing her palms.

  She just looks at me. Then she laughs, and I can relax. “I can barely move, that’s how I feel.” But she reaches down and pulls up her panties, blushing some more, before getting her jeans back on.

  I’m searching around for my shoe, which I guess I kicked off, when Julia clears her throat. I glance up.

  She’s not looking at me, and it freaks me out. Is she upset? I couldn’t bear it if I did something she didn’t like. She seemed like she was enjoying it, but did I misread her? Anxiety blossoms in my gut.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t know I was going on a date with Ryland.”

  I stare at her. Ryland? Why are we talking about Ryland? That seems like years ago now. Watching Julia, though, I can see she needs to explain.

  “He made it sound like a group get-together, when obviously it wasn’t. I told him point blank that if I’d known, I wouldn’t have come. So, no, I didn’t sleep with him.”

  When I don’t say anything—mostly because I’m not sure what to say—she asks, “You’re not mad, are you?”

  I was mad, I’ll admit. I was crazy with jealousy, because the thought of Julia with anyone else was unbearable. Now I just shake my head and take her into my arms.

  “No, I’m not mad. I’m sorry I was mad earlier, though. I had no right to talk to you like that.” I rub her back in soothing circles.

  She sighs. “I should’ve explained right then, but you were pissing me off.”

  I laugh. “I guess I deserved to be tormented.”

  “You think? But believe me, I wasn’t on a date with Ryland. Or, I didn’t want to be. In fact, I was thinking about you the entire time.”

  She isn’t looking at me, so I tip her chin up. The sincerity in her expression undoes me.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I murmur, kissing her on the forehead.

  Chapter 19

  Julia

  “So wait, are you telling me Bastian saw you with Ryland and lost his shit?” Kevin’s eyes widen, and then he claps his hands like he’s just won the lottery. “Girl, you are one lucky bitch! He was so jealous!”

  I’m at Kevin’s place the Tuesday after Bastian and I had our…encounter at Gary’s Pub. I blush remembering it. Did I seriously have sex with a guy in a supply closet? It’s like something out of an erotic romance novel.

  “I think he was,” I reply, my voice sounding incredulous. “I never thought he’d look my way in the first place, let alone get jealous like that.” I take Kevin’s hand. “Pinch me, Kev. Is this real life?”

  He proceeds to pinch me way harder than necessary. I yelp, and then I get my revenge by pinching him. We have a play-fight that ends when I mess up his hair when I hit him with a couch pillow.

  “I worked an hour on that!” he moans, scampering to the hallway mirror, trying to set his hair to rights. “You know how I am about the hair!”

  “You’re at home. Who cares?”

  I laugh as I hear him curse.

  Although I’m still up in the clouds, I have another tiny, blooming fear in my heart. You see, I haven’t heard from Bastian since Saturday. I know, I know. Déjà vu, right? But this time, I’m reassured by the memory of how jealous he’d been when he’d seen me with Ryland. And I’m really reassured by the memory of what we’d done in that storage closet. In fact, I’m so reassured that I’m smiling, and I decide to text him a simple, Hey, I’m thinking of you. How are things?

  Nothing. Where is he?

  Kevin returns then, slightly miffed. He reminds me of a cat, all snobbery and disgust, like I messed up his fur that he’d spent hours cleaning.

  He sniffs as he looks at me. “That’s at least the twentieth time you’ve checked your phone. What’s up? Is he ghosting on you again?”

  I don’t want to admit it. If I say it out loud, then it’ll be true, and didn’t we already do this? How could he ghost on me when he knew how rude it was last time?

  “I think he’s just busy,” I reply. It sounds so lame that I wince.

  “Uh-huh. And I was born yesterday. This guy sure is a piece of work, Jules. One second he’s all over you for looking at Ryland Masters, and then he won’t even text you for days. Does he have selective memory?”

  I slump down into Kevin’s ratty couch. “I don’t know. He seemed so apologetic last time that I thought we’d moved past this. If there’s some issue, he could email me, or come to my place, or find me at Cooper’s. Unless he’s out of the country or something.”

  Kevin doesn’t say anything, but then he pats me lightly on the knee. “Cheer up, dear. He’ll text. I think he’s just easily distracted.” Getting up, he heads to his kitchen, returning with two fruity-flavored drinks. “Time for some booze therapy.”

  We drink into the evening, and although I’m trying hard to have a good time, I can’t stop thinking about Bastian. I look at my phone again, despite Kevin’s gaze laced with pity. Still nothing. Going home, I make myself put my phone on silent so I don’t obsess, but that just makes me look at the screen even more. Placing the phone on a table far from my bed, I try to close my eyes, petting Samson absently. Samson starts purring, and I scratch his ears. But sleep won’t come, and I probably sleep for only a handful of hours before I have to get up for work at Cooper’s.

  I’m tired and there are huge purple bags under my eyes when I show up for my shift. I’m also ten minutes late, and She-Hulk is there when I clock in to tell me as much. “Being late messes up the entire schedule, Rominger,” she tells me, like I don’t already know. “It means that Ferrars has to stay on longer, which means he should’ve had two breaks instead of one, and then the Feds will be coming for my head.”

  I doubt the Feds give a shit about how many breaks employees get at Cooper’s, but I don’t say as much. I just tell She-Hulk that it won’t happen again. But as I say it, I yawn, and she gives me such a wrathful look that I scurry away like a scared rabbit.

  By the end of the week, I’ve texted Bastian three more times with no response. I’ve called him twice, but no answer. Although I felt like a total stalker, I even called his work to inquire if he was in, but his assistant told me he was unavailable. I’m close to showing up at his place and knocking on the door by Friday night.

  I told myself I would try to be understanding, but I can’t be stupid.

  He’s done it again.

  Proving once and for all what an idiot I am.

  But then I remember the circumstances of how we met, and I feel worried. What if he passed out again? What if he’s sick? For God’s sake, I’d hijacked a cab to follow his ambulance and I hadn’t even known him yet. And now, after we’ve gone out and I’ve slept with him several times, I’m letting my pride limit me to electronic communication when I can just head over to his house.

  On Saturday morning, I get up early, get dressed, feed Samson, and head out. I have the day off, and I’m on a mission. Bastian doesn’t get to disappear and expect me not to ask questions. He doesn’t get to demand that I behave the way he likes without having the same courtesy for me.

  It’s about 10:00 A.M. when I show up at his place. Fortunately, the gate to his driveway is open. As I ascend the stone steps and approach his front door, however, I hesitate. Am I going too far? I don’t want to seem like some creepy stalker. Then again, another part of me is worried about him. The fact that he hasn’t responded to any of my texts or calls is really concernin
g. I mean, maybe his phone died and he hasn’t had time to replace it, but something in my gut tells me it’s something else.

  I ring the doorbell and wait. No one comes, so I ring it again. Just as I’m about to ring the bell a third time, the front door swings open.

  It’s dim inside Bastian’s house, and it takes me a second to recognize him. But when I see him, I can’t help but gasp.

  He’s pale, his face drawn and tired, and a blanket is thrown around his shoulders. He grimaces with pain from the light shining in, and I move quickly. I don’t even say anything; I close the front door and help him to his bedroom. He mutters my name under his breath as he collapses into bed.

  The curtains are shut and it’s dark in here, too, but I can see pill bottles, a thermometer, water glasses, and a variety of blankets strewn about. I want to open a window because it’s stuffy, but I’m not sure if that will help him or make things worse.

  He closes his eyes when I sit down on the bed next to him. I feel his forehead, and I wince. He’s burning up.

  “You have a fever,” I say. “Did you take anything for it yet?”

  “Yes, but only ten minutes ago. It should go down soon.” The words seem to be pulled from him, and his chest rises and falls in quick breaths, as if speaking takes too much exertion.

  My own chest constricts. What is wrong with him? How could a man so young and fit be this ill? I wonder if it’s the flu, but does the flu last this long? I must admit, I’ve only had a few ailments in my life, usually nothing worse than a cold or strep throat when I was a little kid.

  I see that his water glass is empty. Without asking, I go to refill it, and I look around his pantry for any kind of food. But his large gourmet kitchen is bare, with only a bag of sugar on one shelf and some random condiments in the fridge. Seeing that, though, gives me a sense of purpose. I can go get him food from Cooper’s. I can take care of him. I don’t care if he doesn’t want me to; I’m not going anywhere.

  Returning to his room, I set the glass of water on the bedside table. I don’t say anything, but Bastian tries to sit up. He’s sweating by the time he’s propped up and I tell him he just needs to sleep, but he’s adamant.

  “You don’t need to be here,” he says in a raspy voice. “I’ve got it under control.”

  I want to shake him. He’ll starve himself and no one will be the wiser if he goes on like this. “I don’t mind. I have the day off from work. Let me help, Bastian.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s nothing for you to do. It’ll go away on its own. I don’t need a nurse bringing me water. I’m fine.”

  “You’re obviously not fine.” I touch his forehead. “You have a fever, you have nothing to eat, and you look like hell. Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or are you going to keep being stubborn?”

  He grimaces. Closing his eyes, he just sighs and doesn’t reply.

  But I wait. I can be patient. He can try to avoid this as much as he wants, but he isn’t getting out of this without explaining what’s happening.

  “I have lupus,” he finally says, opening his tired eyes. “I was in remission for over a year, but obviously it’s come back. When I have an episode, I get feverish and my joints hurt like hell and it’s hard to breathe. There’s nothing anyone can do.” He sucks in a breath, and I can see it’s still a struggle to talk.

  I shush him and have him lie back down, my mind awhirl. Lupus? I’ve heard of it, but I don’t really know what it is. But it’s clearly something brutal, judging by how much it’s affected someone as strong as Bastian.

  I get a cold, wet cloth and bathe his forehead. He mutters something, but eventually he falls into a fitful sleep, his fever ebbing somewhat. When he’s asleep, I go to open a window while keeping the curtains shut, and then I pull up a chair and sit next to him.

  I Google lupus, and when I read about it, my heart cracks. How many years has Bastian been suffering alone? With this disease with no cure? Reading more and more articles and stories from other lupus sufferers, I wipe away a tear that falls.

  It’s not a death sentence, but it’s a chronic illness with no known cause or cure. The body essentially attacks itself with an overactive immune system. I don’t understand all of the more science-y articles, but part of me is relieved that I know what’s going on. That I can understand why Bastian does the things he does.

  His collapse at Cooper’s that day must have been due to lupus, I realize. I wonder if that was the start of the relapse.

  A few hours later, Bastian wakes up again, and when he sees I’m still here, he looks irritated. He sits up and grabs the water glass, draining it with quick gulps.

  “You should go,” he says to me. His voice is flat, emotionless.

  “I want to help. You can’t do this all alone, right?”

  He laughs bitterly. “I’ve been doing this alone for years. So, no, I don’t need your help.” When I wince, he softens his voice a little. “I’m sorry, Julia. But I think you should leave.” I don’t move, and he adds, “Please?”

  I don’t want to leave, but I won’t force myself on him, either. As I get up, though, and see his face, I want to tell him that he’ll never be alone.

  But how can I tell him that when he refuses to accept any help offered to him?

  As I’m walking away, I hear him sigh. It’s the saddest sigh I’ve ever heard, and I know, I know, that I can’t leave.

  “I’m not going anywhere, Sebastian Rich,” I tell him in a firm voice.

  Chapter 20

  Bastian

  I never wanted Julia to find out about my illness like this. When I heard someone ringing the doorbell, I thought maybe it was just some salesperson. Then came the second ring, and I hauled ass out of bed to make sure it wasn’t some emergency. Opening the door, I could barely put two and two together, seeing Julia there. She seemed so out of place, like there was no way she could be standing in front of me, at my house, seeing me looking so pathetic.

  She’s trying to be helpful now. I appreciate it—I do. She’s a good person, and I know she won’t just leave me to rot. I watch as she moves about my bedroom, tidying up, and she smiles at me over her shoulder.

  This wasn’t supposed to be how it goes. Julia’s not supposed to become my nurse and see me at my lowest point. I have the urge to tell her to get the hell out; instead, I bite my tongue until I can taste copper in my mouth.

  Julia eventually sits next to me, chatting away, and I can’t take it anymore. I can’t have her here. If it destroys the budding relationship between us? So be it.

  I’d rather be alone than have her become my caretaker.

  “I’m sorry, Julia,” I tell her quietly, “but I think you should leave.”

  Her hurt look pierces through my heart, but I stand firm. Desperate, I add, “Please.”

  She gets up to leave, and I sigh. I can’t help it. I want her to leave, I don’t want her to leave, and I’m so tired I just want to sleep for an eternity.

  But Julia Rominger has never been one for following the rules. She turns, her expression set. “I’m not going anywhere, Sebastian Rich.”

  She sits back down onto my bed, as if daring me to tell her to go again. To my shock, relief fills me. I don’t want to be alone, I think. Stay with me, Julia.

  I don’t say anything. But I think my eyes give away everything I’m thinking, because Julia’s initial hurt look fades into one brimming with sympathy.

  We don’t talk for a while, just enjoying each other’s presence. I close my eyes and doze briefly. When I awaken, it’s the afternoon, and Julia is there beside me, reading a book. Seeing me wake up, she sets the book aside and feels my forehead.

  “Your fever has definitely gone down. How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “Better,” I croak. “I think I’m even hungry.”

  She brightens. After making sure I’m comfortable, she fetches her purse, preparing to go to Cooper’s for some groceries. Although I protest, she won’t hear no for an answer. “At least use
my credit card to pay,” I say. “My wallet’s on my dresser.”

  She smiles. “I’m very familiar with your wallet, Mr. Rich.” She puts it into her purse. “I’ll be back in a bit, okay?”

  I haven’t had anyone take care of me like this since my parents, to be honest. Oh, some girlfriends have tried here and there, and they meant well. But inevitably I would get irritated with their fussing and tell them to go away. They’d be hurt, and then they’d stop taking my texts and calls until we broke up. Thus why I resisted Julia becoming like my other girlfriends-turned-nurses: I didn’t want to ruin what we had just started.

  I’m still afraid that’ll happen. But I’m trying to react differently this time, and for some reason, having Julia be that person doesn’t frustrate me the way those other women did. I think it’s because I’m just more comfortable being around her.

  After she gets back, she prepares some food, and we have lunch in bed together. Although she’s taking care of me, she doesn’t treat me like a child. She’s efficient and thoughtful, but not overbearing. If I weren’t so weak, I’d kiss her and show her how much I still want her.

  When lunch is over, Julia seems like she’s trying to say something but is unsure how. So I wait and let her gather her thoughts. I wonder if she’s going to ask more questions about my lupus, and I cringe inside. I don’t really want to talk about it, not even with her.

  She surprises me, though. She gazes at me with a frank, open expression and says, “I want to tell you why I dropped out of college.”

  It’s not remotely what I was expecting, but I sit up all the same, intent on listening. I never thought she’d tell me the reason. Her trust in me fills me with a feeling I can barely understand right now.

  “I didn’t drop out because I was bored with school or ran out of money or any of the usual reasons. It’s much, much more embarrassing than that.” She laughs a little, but it’s a sad laugh. “I’m afraid you’ll think badly of me when I tell you, though.”

  I catch her hand, enfolding it in my own. “I could never think badly of you,” I say.