Chapter 6
The community hospital wasn't far, but even at midnight, the ER was packed.
Eric carried me on his back, running from registration to the doctor's office to the pharmacy, never once complaining.
He settled me into a chair in the IV room and watched the nurse slide the cold needle into my vein. His brows were knitted so tight I could've balanced a coin on them.
"Does it hurt?" Eric asked softly.
I shook my head. It stung a little, but my heart was so full of something I couldn't name that the pain barely registered.
The IV drip stretched on forever. I leaned back, my eyes getting heavy.
Eric sat quietly in the chair beside me, staying by my side the whole time.
As the night wore on, the IV room slowly emptied. Through half-closed eyes, I stole glances at him.
The soft light smoothed out his usual sharp edges, casting gentle shadows across his face.
His head was slightly bowed, long lashes throwing delicate fans of shadow under his eyes, exhaustion written all over him.
This was the first time I'd ever seen him like this.
Without the sarcasm, without the constant calculating, he looked like the kind of guy who'd stay up all night when you're sick.
My heart skipped a beat before I even realized it.
*****
By the time we got home, dawn was already breaking.
Eric got me settled, checked my temperature again to make sure the fever had broken, and only then did he finally let out a breath.
Instead of going to his own room, he spread a blanket on the floor by my bed and crashed there, still in his clothes.
I watched his back, my feelings all tangled up inside.
When I woke the next morning, Eric was already gone. On the nightstand sat a glass of warm water and some fever medicine.
And there was also one of those familiar bills.
My heart sank as I picked it up, but when I read it, I froze.
There was one line on it: [Nursing services, medical expenses, emotional distress, lost work time... Total: $1.]
A dollar? I stared at it again and again, to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me.
Eric, who'd fine me ten bucks for going a minute over in the shower, was charging me a dollar for babysitting me all night?
This was more unbelievable than the sun rising in the west.
The slip of paper weighed nothing in my hand, but my heart felt like it was melting.
He was always complaining about wasting money on medicine, but he cared for me. That was textbook tough exterior, soft inside.
I folded that one-dollar fine carefully and slipped it into my diary.
Out of all the penalties Eric had ever charged me, this was the only one I'd keep forever.
*****
After I got better, something changed between Eric and me, even if it was a little.
I didn't see him as a bloodsucking landlord out to squeeze every penny from me anymore.
I started to hear a bit of care hiding behind his usual sarcasm.
He'd still nag me about how unhealthy my takeout habit was, then quietly make an extra bowl of noodles and leave it on the counter.
He'd still fight me for the remote, but when my cramps hit, he'd toss it to me and head to the kitchen to make ginger tea, muttering, "Don't die in my apartment. The cleanup would be a nightmare."
I complained that the ginger tea was too spicy. Eric shrugged. "Medicine's not supposed to taste good."
Somehow, though, it tasted pretty sweet.
*****
Sometimes a woman's intuition was almost terrifyingly accurate.
Right when those little feelings were starting to take root, my mom called as if she had a sixth sense about it.
"Laura, what do you think about that guy Helen set you up with last time?" my mom asked.
Immediately, a slightly greasy face and a soft beer belly popped into my mind.
That blind date was Hank Warner. He had a steady government job, stability as his main selling point, and a favorite hobby of having opinions about my work and my life.
From the very first meeting, Hank had taken it upon himself to advise me, talking down to me like he'd already figured out the world.
He said, "Laura, what's the point of working so hard? Girls should find something stable, settle down, and have kids. That's what actually matters.
"You designers work late all the time. That's terrible for your skin. You'll age before your time."
If I hadn't been holding back, I swear I would've tossed my lemonade right in his face.
I shrugged off my mom's question. "Not interested, Mom. He's not my type."
"Not your type? He has a stable job, and his family is well-off. What exactly are you looking for?" My mom's voice carried that familiar frustration, as if I were failing some unspoken test.
"Mom, we don't connect."
"Don't connect? That's an excuse. You're too picky!" she snapped.
I didn't have the energy for this conversation. I made my excuses and hung up quickly.