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 concerning. 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.