Bastian

When I get home from Julia’s, I strip off the clothes that smell like her and try not to obsess over her asking to keep things casual.

Isn’t that what I should want? Doesn’t every guy want a girl who’s not begging him to marry her? And given my health situation, I should be glad Julia’s made things easy for me. I can spend time with her now, not worrying that she’s going to get too invested in our relationship or will feel obligated to stay with me as my health becomes more and more of an issue.

But Julia doesn’t strike me as the casual relationship type. She was so responsive during sex, so into me and so desperate for me to touch her that I have a hard time believing she’s as blasé about everything as she wanted me to believe.

I go downstairs to turn on the TV and prepare for my father and brother coming over. My house is newly built, admitting lots of natural light through high windows. The décor is sparse and I’ve been meaning to hire an interior designer to make it look less like a bachelor pad, but who has time for that? Definitely not me. I have a business to run and oh, a disease that keeps coming back no matter how much I don’t want it to.

Lucian arrives about an hour earlier than expected. “I figured we could talk some business before Dad arrives,” he says. “Ryland’s still not sure if he’s going to stay with us. We need to make a plan here, Bastian.”

My head’s hurting just hearing this. I think of how Ryland flirted with Julia at the concert and my rather caveman reaction to him. Can I help it that she brings out the best and the worst in me?

Turning off the TV, I say to Lucian, “Let’s hammer this out.”

We spend the next hour swapping strategies and brainstorming until our father arrives, then stop to watch the game with him. It’s a good time, but after they leave, I can tell something’s not right. My joints are starting to ache, and when I feel my forehead, it’s hot. Taking my temperature, I’m right at about 100 degrees.

I force myself to eat something and take bottles of water upstairs to my bedroom. My head hurts; exhaustion fills me. All of a sudden I feel like I’m ninety-five years old, and it’s a struggle to get undressed and into bed. Lying there, gazing at the ceiling, I wonder how long this will last.

I sleep in bits and spurts. My dreams, though, are filled with Julia: her smile, her laugh, the way she moaned underneath my hands, how she tasted. In one of my dreams she finds me like this, and she’s so disgusted that she runs away. I try to run after her, but I’m too weak. I can’t move.

Waking up before dawn the next morning, I’m sweating buckets. I check my temperature. It’s 102 now. I stagger to the bathroom and take some ibuprofen. But as I’m walking back to my bedroom, I can feel that damned dizziness fill my brain, and before I know it, I black out.

When I come to, I have to crawl to my bed. My heart’s pounding and it’s a struggle to breathe, while my joints hurt like hell. I hurt all over, and when sleep claims me, I hope I don’t wake up until all of this is over.

Lucian shows up the following day with food and ginger ale. He’s been around me enough when I’m having a relapse to know that I don’t want to talk. He’s brought me my favorite soup, and I thank him in a slurred voice.

“Feel better soon, okay?” he tells me. “I need you for this Ryland Masters deal. You’ll let me know if you need anything, right?”

I nod groggily. I don’t even hear Lucian leave.

That’s how the rest of my week goes: sleep, aches, fever, bits of time when I can get some work done, exhaustion, rinse, repeat. Every day I think of calling Julia; every day I stop myself.

I can’t tell her how sick I am. The thought of her looking at me with pity in her eyes? I feel even more ill thinking about it.

It’s stupid—and I know it’s stupid—but I can’t get rid of the idea that men shouldn’t appear weak, especially in front of women they like. I can’t stand the thought of Julia treating me like I’m some delicate flower, or worse, deciding that she needs to nurse me back to health. I’ve had girlfriends who thought they needed to be Florence Nightingale when they realized what my lupus does to me.

A man’s lover becoming his nurse kills the mood quicker than a guy who’s forgotten to take his Viagra.

Of course, just because I don’t want to tell her I’m sick doesn’t mean I can’t contact her. I can text her at the very least. But the thing is, I’m more convinced than ever now that seeing her again is a bad idea, mostly because I was fooling myself when I agreed to a casual relationship with her. I’ve just met her, yet I want her. I want her to be mine. I want her in my bed. On my arm. I want to hear about her dreams and help her accomplish them. I want her to stay by my side, in sickness and in health, and asking her for any of that is wrong, plain wrong.

So I don’t call Julia.

But I can’t stop myself from dreaming of her.