Unscripted (28 page)

“Yeah, well, you’ve . . . done enough in the past twelve hours. And while I’m appreciative and all that, I’d better get—”

I had every intention of throwing back the covers—at least as far as the hem of the T-shirt would allow—and sitting up, ready to take on the world, but the moment I moved too vigorously, the ninjas came back and started attacking me again.

“Whoa, there,” Mason said, taking me by the shoulders and easing me back against the pillow. “Not a good idea.”

Wincing, I fought out, “Yeah. I can see that.”

“Just . . . stay there, all right?”

“Here? In . . . in your bed?” I panted, willing the ninjas to go away. The ninjas laughed in my face and stabbed me some more.

“Do I look like a flowered quilt person to you?”

“This isn’t your house?”

“Oh, it’s my house, all right. But you’re in the guest room, and you’re going to stay here until you’re functional.” I opened my mouth to protest, but Mason cut me off. “No arguing.”

And honestly, I didn’t have the strength.

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a haze of random naps, bouts of guilt, ninja knifings, and Mason stopping in to try to get fluids down me. By noon, I had managed half a can of ginger ale. And two crackers. My sense of accomplishment was epic.

I nodded off late in the afternoon, and when I woke again, it was dark. And . . . something else was different. What was it? Then I realized—I was hungry. That was good, right? Hungry? Unless that gnawing feeling was my stomach lining disintegrating, which I decided not to think about. It was a huge relief when I tried to move and found the ninjas kept their knives sheathed, even when I dared to get vertical. I opened the bedroom door carefully, tugging the T-shirt down over my butt with my free hand; the last thing I wanted to do was run into Mason while I was literally half dressed.

It took me a minute to get my bearings; I flexed my toes and curled them into the carpet as I took a guess at which door led to the bathroom. Pleased that my first choice was the right one, I ducked inside and took care of business, then found a travel-size tube of toothpaste in a drawer and ran some over my teeth with my finger.

There was a knock on the door. “Faith?”

“Yeah.”

“You all right?”

Aw, that concern again—it warmed the pit of my shriveled stomach. Which, come to think of it, felt . . . pretty normal. “I’m doing good, actually.”

“Not hurling?”

“Not hurling.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“. . . Some pants?”

A pause, then a laugh. “Sure, I can dig something up. I’ll put them on the bed.”

While I waited, I found a small brush and dragged it through my hair. My attempt to look more presentable was a ninety percent fail, but I figured I should have gotten points for trying. I counted to fifty to give Mason time to deliver the pants and retreat. Then I made it a hundred for good measure. When I opened the bathroom door, there was no sign of him; I scooted back into the bedroom to find a large pair of blue sweatpants, obviously also Mason’s, on the bed. When I put them on, they immediately fell down to my thighs. I hitched them up, pulled the drawstring as tight as I could, knotted it securely, then ventured into the main part of the house.

It was another one of those cookie-cutter homes, just like the ones I’d looked at to rent—good grief, was it only yesterday?—but it was clean, neat, and nicely decorated.

Most of the lights were off in the main part of the house, which was essentially one big room, with a modern kitchen with a granite-topped island separating it from the dining area, both off to the left, and the living room part to the right. The sofa, a narrow table butted up against the back of it, acted as a divider for the room. The large-screen TV on the wall opposite was showing a paused scene of what I thought was a familiar movie, but before I could identify it, Mason turned around on the sofa, stretching his arm across the cushions.

“Welcome back to the land of the living.”

He got up and crossed to me as I looked around appreciatively. “This is a really nice house.”

Shrugging those broad shoulders of his, he said, “It’s all right. A little tract-house-ish. What can you do?”

I couldn’t figure this out. As far as I knew, Mason was single, although I’d never asked him—I’d just noticed the lack of a wedding band, and he never mentioned a spouse. I supposed I had been expecting him to live in Guyville—some flea-riddled apartment with a broken-down couch, a wooden spool for a coffee table, and a mattress on the floor—and, of course, a bitchin’ entertainment system. But that wasn’t fair to him. He
taught
at a college; he wasn’t one of the students. Why wouldn’t he have a nice house, like a proper adult? Still, what was getting to me was that the place was a little too . . . girly? The color schemes, the artwork, the curtains . . . The décor didn’t even imply that he was gay. I knew more than my fair share of gay men, and their style was entirely different. No, this place looked like it was made homey by a woman with good, if conservative, taste. But there was no trace of her here now. Curious.

I was so wrapped up in playing detective that I missed what Mason was saying. “—sit down?”

“Sorry—what?”

“Do you need to sit down? You, um, still seem a little . . .”

“Out of it?”

“A bit.”

“You know, I think I feel fine. Is that weird?”

He shrugged again. “No, not really. Kaylie called again—she’s worried about you.”
Sure
she was. “The update from campus is this virus is vicious, but brief—a twenty-four-hour thing. If you have an iron constitution, you’d probably recover even faster.”

“That could be me. I’m, uh, sort of . . . hungry?”

“Well, good. More crackers? Some toast?”

I bit my lip. “Maybe something more than that?”

He laughed outright. “
That’s
an iron constitution. How about grilled cheese? I am the master of the griddle.”

“You know, I should say ‘no’ to cheese for the rest of my life, after last night’s mac and cheese reappearance, but that sounds really good.”

“Grilled cheese it is. And tomato?”

I grimaced. “Who would
do
that?”

“A purist, eh? I can change your mind with a grilled cheese and bacon. Just like a bacon cheeseburger without the burger.”

“Then you’re leaving out the best part.”

“You could eat a big ol’ bacon cheeseburger right about now? Seriously?”

“I
could
. But I won’t. Just in case.”

“Then my grilled cheese and bacon is a good compromise. Try it. I’ll use turkey bacon so there isn’t much grease.”

“Sounds horrible.”

“Trust me.”

“Well, if you’re half as good a cook as you are a doctor—”

He moved toward the kitchen. “Mm, more of a caregiver and vomit cleaner, I think. But if I could have cured you faster, I would have.” He pulled out a skillet from a cupboard.

“You did great. And, again, I’m so sorry—”

He stood up, pointing the skillet at me. “Uh-uh. Remember—no apologies. I was happy to help.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s more like it. Sit; I’ll get you some more ginger ale.”

I slipped into one of the tall chairs at the breakfast bar and watched Mason put together a grilled cheese and turkey bacon sandwich, and halfway through the show, I realized I had a dopey smile on my face that I couldn’t manage to get rid of. I tried, repeatedly, forcing the corners of my mouth into neutral, but they always curved upward again a few seconds later. So I gave up and let it be.

Chapter 17

“You may say I was right at any time.”

“Can’t.”

“No?”

“Nope. Not s’posed to talk with my mouth full.”

“Ah, manners. I’ll wait.”

I swallowed the last bite of Mason’s grilled cheese and turkey bacon sandwich, wiped my lips and fingers with my napkin, then said, “You were so totally right.”

“Thank you.”

“You could create an entire restaurant around that sandwich.”

Mason leaned forward, resting his forearms on the granite counter across from me. “A grilled cheese restaurant? I think it’s been done.”

I leaned forward too, over my now-empty plate. “No, I mean sell just that one type. You’d make millions.”

“Maybe when I retire.” He paused, watching me. “So you’re sure you’re feeling all right?”

“Yep.”

“Impressive.”

“I am that.”

There was a moment’s silence, and I realized that Mason and I were a ridiculous six inches away from each other—ridiculous because we’d leaned in close to one another, but then what were we going to do with that proximity? From here I could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes, his dark amber lashes, a small mole by the bridge of his nose, the sweep of his wavy hair. His usual light stubble was back, dusting his chin, circling his smiling lips.

So I did the only thing I could, under the circumstances.

I sat back.

Oh, I didn’t
want
to. I had to. Because suddenly my only other option was to go flying across the counter at him. And I really wasn’t sure how he would take that. Hell, I wasn’t sure how
I
would take that. I mean, this was Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell—wasn’t there some sort of rule against throwing oneself at one’s co-teacher? Or . . . something? I wasn’t about to risk it. That would have been insane on my part.

When I sat back, Mason stood up straight, as though taking a cue from me. Well, drat. I realized, too late, that that was exactly what I
didn’t
want. To cover my disappointment, I glanced over at the still-frozen TV screen, finally realizing.

“Hey, is that
Whatever She Wants?
”

He looked in that direction as well, as though he had forgotten he had been watching one of my mother’s movies before I had risen from my deathbed and interrupted him. “It is. I’m prepping for my next lecture on your mom.”

“Last night was . . . ?”

“The first in a series, yeah. I’ve scheduled four, but that’s not going to be anywhere near enough lectures to do your mother’s career justice. I might do another series in the spring. Want to watch it with me? It’s still in the first five minutes.”

I followed him over to the sofa. I wasn’t interested in watching my mom’s take on the “precocious child/weary adult oddball team” movie trope that kept rearing its ugly head throughout the last decades of the twentieth century. (Her offering was released in 1984.) I was, however, interested in spending more time with Mason. So I sat down next to him, sinking into the butterscotch-colored leather. He flashed me a smile as he picked up the remote. Bracing myself for an hour and a half of boredom, I sat back, tucking my bare feet under me.

“Some people call this my contract-fulfillment picture, but I didn’t mind making it . . .”

I jumped a mile as my mother’s imperious tone floated out of the speakers.

“Oh. I have the commentary track on. You don’t mind, do you?”

I shook my head. Just great. Not only did I get to rewatch one of my mother’s movies—an event I could have lived without—I was going to have to listen to her talk about it. “I don’t remember my mom doing a commentary track for this.”

“I just got her new boxed set. She did commentary for all her earlier films—any of the ones she hadn’t done yet, I mean—just last year. The bonus material has been fascinating.”

“I’ll bet.”

I didn’t mean to sound jaded, but hey, I was. All this inside information may have been new to her fans, but I’d been hearing these anecdotes my entire life, during her cocktail parties and dinner parties and sitting in on interview after interview for documentaries, up-close-and-personal TV features, and magazine articles.

Sure enough, Mona’s commentary was nothing I hadn’t heard before, although I could see how it would be of interest to her fans and film students. After a while, Mason turned down the volume a bit and, keeping his eyes on the TV screen, murmured, “I met your mom once, you know. Briefly. When I was a kid.”

Okay, now
this
was interesting. “Really? And what did you think of her?”

He laughed. “She was terrifying.”

“I know, right?”

“Tall, really great posture, which made her look even taller, and that big hair thing . . . and that way she had of sort of looking down her nose . . .”

“I know that look!” And I drew myself up and did my best Mona.

Mason shuddered. “Oh God, don’t do that! You look just like her!”