Checked Again (26 page)

I
swing my legs off of the bed and head to the door. I stop right in front of it,
trying to look out the peephole without actually putting my eye up to the
peephole…you know, the little hole in the door where millions of eye germs must
be lurking. Pink eye germs. Glaucoma germs. Cataract germs. I don’t know which
of those are contagious. But it doesn’t matter—I don’t want to be anywhere near
any peephole germs whatsoever.

I
try a few different standing positions, but I don’t succeed in actually seeing
through the peephole. I could just ask who is on the other side of the door,
but if it’s Dr. Gabriel, then he’ll know I’m here and awake…and I’ll have no
choice but to open the door.

But
if it’s not Dr. Gabriel and it’s Dr. Blake…then, if I don’t say something soon,
he might go aw—

“Callie?”
Low voice. Quiet voice.
His
voice.

“Callie?
I have something I need to give you. Can I come in?”

“Yes.”
The word comes out of me right away. Unfortunately, my hand doesn’t reach out
to turn the door handle quite so easily. Out of habit, I turn to go into the
bathroom to get a tissue and—

“Step
back. I’ll use my key so you don’t have to touch the handle…even though it
really is clean.”

Oh.
Perfect.
{Lorde.
“Royals
.
”
}

I
stand in the little hallway, a couple steps away from the door. The door makes
some sort of mechanical, key accepting noise, and then it starts to open
slowly.

And
he’s back. He steps into the room, my bag slung over his shoulder. He takes off
his shoes, puts them on the towel beside mine, and then turns to guide the door
shut behind him. His eyes don’t meet mine.

Still
in the same clothes. White shirt lazily tucked into black pants. Unbuttoned at
the collar. No tie.

Still
sort of dressed for work.

He
is still sort of working, I guess. Working on location. After hours. Taking
care of a—

“I
brought your stuff.”

Still
not meeting my eyes, looking beyond me, he shrugs my bag off his shoulder. He
doesn’t need to tell me that he’s cleaned the outside of my bag. I know he
did…that he wouldn’t
not
clean it. Plus, I can smell Lysol in the air
between us.           

I
don’t know exactly how he managed to get my bag, my stuff, from whatever room
it was initially taken to when we arrived at the hotel…but I’m not surprised
that he figured out how to get it…not surprised that he figured out a way to
make things better for me. He always does.
{Lorde gets to her refrain
again.}

“Thank
you.” I say it quietly. Even though he’s not looking at me. Maybe not even
hearing me.

I
watch as he moves past me, places my bag on the bed, grabs the remote control
from the nightstand, and walks to the television. He does all of this without a
glance in my direction, without acknowledging that I said anything…making me
wonder if words actually did even come out of my mouth.

Maybe
it’s like that tree in the forest thing. If someone says something and no one
is listening, perhaps no—

He
turns the television on, and voices from a commercial fill the room…a
commercial for a dating website…voices bragging about how easy it is to meet
someone…to date…to fall in—

The
television clicks to a new station and then another. Then another. I can’t see
the screen because his body blocks it. I can only see him, the back of him. I hear
scraps of noise blaring out from each passing channel. Click. Click. Click.
Click. Click. Click. Click. Cl—

Stop.
The clicking stops. A young male voice says something about oven temperatures.
{Lorde
keeps singing her refrain. Over and o—}

He
turns around to…well, to not look at me. To look past me again. I just look
down as he talks, hoping it will feel less awkward that way. It doesn’t.

“When
I said that everything has been cleaned, I meant everything. I used those
medical wipes on the small things like the remote…the bolt on the door…the
thermostat.” He pauses. He still doesn’t look at me. “Also, the batteries in
the smoke alarms in this building were changed last month. I checked with a
manager. If a fire would happen, which is highly unlikely, you would just exit
using the stairs we took to get up here.”

I
nod, keeping my head down, trying not to think about unattended candles,
plugged in irons and hair straighteners and—

And
not succeeding in not thinking about any of those things. There are so many
floors…so many rooms…so many people staying here. The odds that every single
person in every single room will be responsible and not forget—

“I’ll
be right across the hall, in room 317. If an alarm goes off or if you hear a
strange noise, or…or if you need me somehow—”

He
breaks off. I don’t look up.

Need
you how? Need you to stop being so sad? Need you to look at me? Need you to
stop changing moods every three seconds? Need you to—

{Alias
comes back with
“(I
Need You Now) More Than Words Can Say
.
”
The—}

“I
really am horrible for you, Callie.”

What?

My
faces shoots upward and—

And
he’s actually looking at me. Right into my eyes.

Stunned,
without thinking, I look right back down. Away from the mess of frustration and
exhaustion that is his face right now.

Quietly,
he continues. “I’m not helping you. I’m enabling you. I’m letting your
condition win.” He pauses. “With OCD—”

He
starts to get all doctory, blurting out numbers and statistics…research about
treating a mental disorder. He starts to use the words “okay” and “all right”
again and again…just like he used to during our appointments.

I
stop listening. I keep my head down, and I close my eyes. Once again, I see
myself in my hospital bed…I see him beside me, saying goodbye. I watch it all
happening, imagine it all happening…me lying there unmoving, unresponsive…him
getting up and walking out the door.

He
left.
He left me alone.
Right in the middle of a nightmare of
needles and doctors and other patients and disgusting hospital gowns and
unimaginable diseases and—

And
he’s probably about to do it again. He—

Eyes
open. My head flings up, and my mouth starts moving, cutting off his medical
lecture. “You are going to leave again, aren’t you? You have me right in the
middle of another scary situation, in a hotel room for the first time in, well,
I don’t even know how long. You are going to leave me here, alone, and you—”

STOP,
Callie. STOP. STOP.

His
eyes meet mine. His eyes. Pained. Bruised. Vulnerable.
{Damien sings. Very
slowly.}

I
open my mouth to apologize, to try to take away the look in his eyes, but he
starts talking before I get any words out.

“You
think I want to upset you…to hurt you…to leave you?” His eyes scrunch together
as he speaks, as he almost whispers his words. “You think I haven’t replayed those
last few minutes with you in the hospital a million times? You think I haven’t
regretted leaving you?” He pauses and takes a single step toward me.

I
don’t move a muscle.

He
continues. “You think I haven’t thought about you every single—”  He shakes his
head and takes another step toward me. His eyes burn into mine. My eyes fight
to blink, but I don’t let them. I watch him. I listen to him. “Callie, when I
told Mandy that things…that we…ended because of you…Callie, it was true.” A
rush of words now comes out of him. “None of this is fair to you…me constantly
comparing you to…to Mom…it’s not fair…and I can’t seem to stop. But I want to
stop, Callie.” He pauses. “I want—” Another pause. “What I want—”

Out
of the lower corner of my eye, I see his arm reach forward to—

To
me.

His
strong, warm fingers circle around my hand. His eyes close for a beat as soon
as his skin meets mine.

My
eyes, now blurry, struggle to do the same…to blink for a second…to shut for
just a moment. But I don’t let them. I don’t look away.

He
slowly raises his eyelids. His breathing is loud now. Heavy.

He
tugs my hand, tugs me closer to him. “What I want, Callie—”

He
leans in toward me. His face. His eyes. His lips. All coming closer. His eyes
still on mine, his hand clutching my fingers, his lips so close to my lips, he
breathes in and out and in and out and in and out…

So
heavy. So fast.

I
try to breathe, but nothing comes. Nothing comes.

“Callie,
what I want is to…to…” He squeezes my hand. Hard. “I want to hold your hand. A
lot. Everywhere. I want to—”

He
pauses and closes his eyes again.
{Damien sings.}

Eyes
still closed, lips still right here…breathing on me, he continues. “I want to
kiss you, Callie.” His eyes flip open. And they are just…just scorching. “A
lot. Everywhere.”

Involuntarily,
my lips part, my own heavy breathing needing an escape.

Eyes
on eyes. Fire on fire on fire on fire on fire on—

He
moves closer. “I want to—” His lips brush mine as he speaks.

We
both freeze. Lips touching. Not moving. A groan, a sigh, breathes out of
him…breathes right into me. Right past my lips.

And
then his lips start moving. Mine start moving. Our mouths crash into each
other. Over and over and over.
{Dave Matthews Band enters with
“Crash
into Me
.
”
}
And over and over and over. He releases my hand and
puts both of his arms around my waist, pulling me in and in and in. I slide one
of my hands up to his face, running my fingers over the slight stubble on his
cheek, his neck. His tongue slides slowly between my lips…teasing me…tasting
me. I use my free hand to grab his open shirt collar, to pull him as close as—

He
rips his lips off of mine, pulls his face back to look at me. His eyes are
still on fire. “Callie, I want this…I want you.” He blinks his eyes yet again
as his mouth raises slightly in a lazy, heated smile. My fingers slide from his
neck to his lips, tracing the upturned shape of his mouth. He starts talking
again, my fingers still on his lips. “But I want you to get better too. And I—”

He
pauses and closes his lips around my fingers. His tongue grazes the tip of my
thumb, and his eyes close as he slowly sighs.
{
“Crash into Me
.
”
Refrain refrain refrain.}

My
fingers…my lips…my body—everything starts prickling…tingling…

He
opens his lips again, but his eyes remain closed.

My
fingers don’t move from his mouth.

He
exhales, covering my fingers in warm breath. “Callie, I have to come up with a
way to make you better. A way that doesn’t involve me being your doctor
anymore.” His eyes gradually lift open. Hot, feverish eyes.

He
turns his head slightly to kiss my fingers.

More
tingling.

Then
he continues to speak. My fingers bounce up and down between his lips as words
come out of him. “I can’t be your doctor. Not when what I want to do—” His
voice is deep, husky. “The way I think about you…feel about you—” He grabs my
hand and pulls it up, kissing the bottom of my open palm. “I can’t be your
doctor.”

{More
Dave Matthews Band. Louder. More insistent.}

My
body, now trembling, aches to move closer to him. To—

He
pulls my hand down slowly, down to his chest. Through his thin dress shirt and
undershirt, I can feel the heat from his skin…the thumping of his heart.

His
hand presses into mine, mashing my fingers against his chest.

We
both breathe. Eyes. Still. Locked. Together.
{DMB. Still. Singing.}

He
groans again…almost growls.

“If
I don’t leave now, I’m—”

His
heart beats faster. Mine does too.

He
shakes his head. “I can’t think around you, Callie. Not at all.” His hand
starts moving back and forth over mine. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back
and forth. Burning and burning and burning.

He
whispers, “I have to go. I have to figure something out. Another treatment.
Another doctor. Something.”

I
open my mouth to tell him that I don’t want another doctor…that I doubt I’ll be
able to get myself to another doctor. I don’t get the chance to talk, though.

Because
he keeps talking. “And I don’t want you to think that this is why I came here.
To—”

He
stops for a beat, his face flushed. “That’s not what I—I…I came here to help
you.”

I
know that.
Again,
I open my mouth to speak and, again, he beats me to it.

“And
I will figure out a way to get you help. Soon.” He gently squeezes my hand,
leans in to kiss the top of my forehead, and releases me.