eight-hour toilet bowl worship seemed to indicate that to be the case.
Brian was a great boyfriend at the time. He did the whole holding my hair back thing while I purged my body of the ten shots of liquid that had tasted like motor oil and gasoline going down, and just about the same coming back up. He was sympathetic: stroking my back to work out the kinks earned from hunching over the toilet for so long, placing the damp cloth on my forehead when I started to sweat profusely, and helping me stretch out on the cool tile floor to lower my feverish body temperature. Brian was always such a caretaker. Unfortunately, while he did a decent job taking care of my stomach that night, my heart was one thing he was much less cautious with.
When he slept with his organic chemistry lab partner the first week into college, he’d shattered it completely. Like the past three years together were an obvious exchange for a one-night stand with the beautifully blonde sorority pledge. She hooked up with his frat brother the next day, so it didn’t last between them, but I don’t think that’s what he wanted, anyway. I just think he didn’t want me anymore.
“Maggie!” Mikey shouts again, this time above the blast of helmets and pads crashing against one another, the television’s volume cranked to full power.
“Coming!”
I jog down the hall toward the entryway and pull on the front door, half expecting to see Cora, half deluding myself into believing it might actually be Brian, but completely unprepared for the tattoo-clad, motorcycle-helmet wearing body standing before me.
Ran.
He lifts his helmet off and shakes out his hair, tucking the helmet under the crook of his arm at the same time he thrusts a bouquet of yellow gerbera daisies my direction.
“Ran?” I mutter, completely baffled by his presence—albeit incredibly attractive presence—on my doorstep. “What are you doing here?”
“I owed you a gift.” Ran waves the flowers toward me. “You gave me another compliment the other night in the ambulance,” he smirks, making my already unsteady knees soften. “And like before, this one can double as makeshift room décor, too.”
I pull the flowers from his hand, still speechless, because searching for some sort of appropriate reply is a more daunting task than the research paper I need to complete this weekend.
“Can I come in?” He looks past me toward the living room where Mikey is perched at the very edge of the couch, his hands held to his mouth as his knees bounce nervously up and down, counting down the last seconds of the game on the big screen.
“Uh, yeah, I guess.” I slide to the right, but Ran is already in the entryway. “I don’t remember giving you a compliment that night. I just remember saying that I couldn’t wait to get out of the ambulance.”
Ran shakes his head and purses his lips. “Nope. You did,” he replies confidently. “You said ‘You guys did a good job with my leg.’ Since it was only half a compliment and I had to share it with Trav, you just got daisies.” He settles his helmet onto the rustic wooden bench next to the front door that is usually littered with Mikey’s football gear. “If you had phrased it like this, ‘Ran, you are my hero for saving my life,’ you would have gotten roses.”
I want to hold it in because I don’t like the idea of giving him the satisfaction, but a snort of a laugh flies out of me.
“Gesundheit.”
“I didn’t sneeze, I laughed.”
Ran cocks his head. “You laugh through your nose?”
“Only when I’m trying not to.” My cheeks radiate about 104 degrees and I tuck my chin into the scarf twisted around my neck, wishing I could disappear into its fabric. Why does he make me so nervous?
“It’s not nice to laugh at someone who brings you a gift,” Ran reprimands, looking past me again, this time down the hall. “Let’s go put these in your room.” He scoops the bouquet out of my hands and pushes past me, but I grab his elbow, making him spin on his heels so we’re face to face. The act surges a frigid chill throughout my entire nervous system, and I’m pretty certain my heart ceases beating the second his eyes lock with mine. I drop my hand quickly and shove it into my pocket.
“I don’t know if you should be in my room.”
“Maggie,” he says, a mocking note held in his tone.