He's sitting now, a book in his hand, but his eyes are on me. I remember I have to say something to Harper, and doing it with an audience is probably shitty for everyone, even the man who doesn't know I'll be at his front door soon.
"Yeah, okay, I'll check on him."
Logan doesn't look away. Harper sighs with relief. "Really? Tonight?"
"Tonight," I promise her. I try to remember whether I've promised Logan anything recently.
She sighs again and asks me to text her once I've seen Jamie. I agree and cling to the phone once she's gone, standing in my underwear and waiting for Logan to ask me questions that won't require an answer.
He saves us both the trouble and skips that part. "Go."
"I'm—"
"Just go. He's sick. His daughter is worried. You won't be able to sleep until you've seen him, so go. I won't wait up."
I feel like I should argue, but we'd both lose in our own ways, so I nod and leave to find my joggers and t-shirt. I pause with my clothes in my hand, wondering whether I'll be forgiven for visiting Jamie while I still smell like another man, but I forgo a shower and get dressed instead. Pulling my hair into a messy bun only takes a few seconds, and with my phone in my pocket and everything else in his living room, I have nothing keeping me here. I'm at the bedroom door, and it feels like the effort it would take to cross the room and kiss him would be a lie.
He shakes his head.
The drive to Jamie's takes me about as long as it would from my apartment, though I'm coming from a different direction, and it feels strangely foreign. After that, nothing does. I park in his driveway and take a deep breath of the ocean air, and then I knock on his door because it's the nice thing to do. He doesn't answer, and I already have my key—just in case—in my hand. When I let myself in, it's almost frighteningly dark and still, and it's the first time since I saw Harper's name on my screen that I've been afraid. I call his name as I nudge my shoes out of the way, but I'm met with nothing but silence.
I make my way further into a house I didn't know I could navigate in the dark, and I try again.
"Jamie, it's me." I pause to listen, then I look toward the great room and a sofa I can't see. It's possible he crashed there, unwilling or unable to make it up the stairs, but there's so little sound and so much darkness, and I turn my back on it. "I'm coming up to your room. I need to make sure you're okay."
Finally, I hear an endless, ugly cough, and I realizeokayis probablyaiming too high for whatever I'm about to find. Barefoot and gentle, I make my way up, calmer now that I know where he is. Jamie's cough shifts into something like an uncomfortable groan just as I reach the bedroom door, the light spilling in from his bathroom allowing me to see him for the first time in a year and a half.
He's blinking up at me like he's not sure whether I'm something his fever-ravaged mind has conjured in the middle of the night. I move closer, and don't know whether it helps, but he's coughing again before I can reassure him with anything else. Jamie's tangled in his covers and so, so small in his bed, and I text Harper before dropping my phone on the duvet so my hands are free. I'm more careful when I sit next to him and reach down, his forehead so obviously hot beneath my palm before I slide my fingers into his damp hair and look at him until he's focused enough to look back.
"Mateo?"
"Yeah," I answer, swallowing hard. "It's me, sweetheart."
"Why are you in my bedroom?"
"Because Harper called to tell me you're sick. Why areyouin your bedroom?"
"Because I'm sick," he says.
The little laugh that bubbles out of me is so unexpected, but I was trying to ask why he didn't see a doctor back east and stay there to recover, and his answer adorably misses my point. I let my fingers trail over his face, and the growth that suggests he's gone nearly a week without shaving. He's beautiful, though—I can't imagine there will ever be a day when he won't be—and I'll do anything to keep myself here for as long as he'll let me stay.
"Do you know when you're due to take your meds again?" I ask. "Your fever seems pretty bad."
"Was almost 104°earlier. What time is it?"
I glance at where I’d left my phone. "Just after 11:00."
"At midnight. I can have Tylenol and antibiotics at midnight."
I'm about to ask whether he wants to get some rest for the next hour, but another coughing fit hits hard, and Jamie's body curls to lessen the strain on his stomach muscles. There's a trash can next to the bed for him to spit into, and when he's ready to lie down again, I help stack his pillows to keep him elevated. He closes his eyes, but reaches for my hand, and I sigh as he coughs all over again. This should be awkward—my appearance in his bedroom and everything since—but after all this time, we've never learned how to be anything but comfortable finding ways to hold on to moments that won't last.
Everything would hurt less if we had, but letting go has been unimaginable for too long to do anything about it now.
I swallow hard and look away from him, only to swallow harder a few seconds later. There's a bottle of water on his nightstand alongside a box of tissues, the pills he can't take yet, and a lamp I leave off, but it's bare otherwise. A quick glance around the room shows that it's mostly empty too, clothes spilling out of a small suitcase further proof that Jamie doesn't live here anymore. I frown and immediately correct it, then gaze down at him again, using my free hand to brush hair back from his forehead.
"Do you want something to eat? Or anything other than water?"
"No."