Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,49
tie the room together.”
He chuckles. I turn around and see his face just as it transitions back to blank.
“Well, thanks again. For everything,” I say impatiently. A film of dried sweat pulls on my skin when I move. I ache to scrub it away under a stream of scalding hot water.
He doesn’t budge. “You sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Nope. I’ve got it from here.” I can’t remember ever having such a difficult time getting someone to leave my place.
I step around him to the front door and open it. He turns around to face me and shuffles. I notice he does the same thing with his feet when he’s sitting.
“You’re absolutely sure? I can stay and help out. It’s no problem.”
“Do you honestly think I need you to help me take a shower?”
He shakes his head, flustered. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you were going to take a shower.”
“What do you think ‘clean up’ means?” I rub my forehead, sounding more curt than I mean to.
He sticks a hand in his hair, pulls hard, then yanks it out. “Right, yeah, sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m just crazy sore and tired. Thank you for your help these past few days, but I’ll be okay on my own. I just need to rest.” I cross my arms, then uncross them, then cross them again.
“I get it. I’ll take off.” He exhales and walks quickly out the door. I lock it before he even makes it off my porch.
A wave of exhaustion hits, as do the words printed on the info packet. No showering allowed for forty-eight hours. I stumble to the bathroom and give my body a half-hearted wipe down with a wet hand towel, then collapse on my couch.
I think about how Tate left, embarrassed and very clearly wanting to stay longer. I grimace at how short I was with him, how I practically pushed him out my front door. I should have been nicer. What would have happened if I had shoved aside my embarrassment and insecurity, and let him stay? It’s my last thought before I drift off.
Sleep is delirious and deep. A faint thud jerks me into a confused and groggy stupor, but I can’t be bothered to open my eyes. Probably the mailman dropping off a package. When I finally wake, it’s early evening, meaning I slept for a few hours.
Gripping the coffee table to pull myself up, I yelp in pain. Surgery has rendered my core ineffective. Evidently, my torso is made of Jell-O and Silly Putty. When I’m finally standing, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I trot back into the living room, but then I remember the mail. I open the front door and see a small crate of mangoes sitting on the porch. Holy shit.
There’s a note card on top of the dozen or so greenish-orange fruits. There’s no name signed on it, but I know they’re from Tate. It’s his distinct all-caps handwriting. I crouch down slowly to pick it up:
These aren’t from the Big Island, but they’ll have to do.
I’m not risking destroying my abdomen muscles to pick up the crate, so I cradle a few in my arms and bring them to the kitchen. It takes three trips, but I manage. By the time I’m finished, mangoes litter the counter. I stare at them in disbelief, then arrange them into a “T” shape. It seems appropriate given who they’re from.
Pressing each with my fingertips, I find the ripest one. I peel and slice it, then devour the sweet, juicy chunks. I’m wide eyed, dumbfounded, and ravenous. I’m chomping on the final piece when I realize I’m smiling.
The next morning, I’m buzzing with a fructose high. The gift of mangoes was a shock. Maybe Tate’s kindness wasn’t short lived. Maybe this is a turning point. Maybe the care and attentiveness he showed me when I was sick is who he truly is. Or maybe the mangoes were a final thoughtful gesture before returning back to our status quo of arguments and loaded silence.
I spend the better part of the day wondering about it. Nothing I do eases my anxiety. I lie on the couch, YouTube my favorite Eat Bulaga! episodes, browse Etsy for antique jewelry I can’t afford, then take a slow walk around the neighborhood for a couple of blocks. Tate hovers at the back of my mind the entire time.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m lying on the couch again.