Page 41 of For Her Own Good

And isn’t that enough for you, Starla? Jesus, what else do you want from the man? You ask too much. Far, far too much.I need to stop. Stop wanting him or at least stop tormenting myself with this fraction of what I want. Knowing he’s probably with a patient because it’s just past the hour, I text him.

I have to cancel for tonight. Sick.

And shove the phone into my pocket until lunch ends and I part ways with Lois, only to pull it out when it buzzes as I’m walking into my apartment.

Ugh, of course.

“Why are you calling, Lowry?”

“You left without a word this morning so I was going to check in with you anyhow. But now you’ve said you’re sick. I’ll bring you something and we can have dinner at your place if you’re not feeling well. I’ve met you, Starla. I’m not going to let you eat a bowl of cold cereal or Doritos dipped in tuna when you’re feeling poorly.”

I am “feeling poorly” because I’m mortified. I want to crawl in my bed and never get out again because I am so completely humiliated. My stomach aches with embarrassment, and chicken soup or whatever the hell he would bring me isn’t going to help with that. What I want is to flop on my couch and cover my face with a hand.

“Stomach flu. You don’t want a piece of this so you definitely shouldn’t come here. I’ve been puking and…” I can’t quite bring myself to lie about having diarrhea. “You get the picture. So you definitely don’t want to come here and be doing the same thing. You have patients to see. Can’t do that when you’re glued to the toilet.”

Why can I not stop talking about toilets? For fuck’s sake.

“Okay,” he says slowly, because no one wants the stomach flu. Even the most hardened anti-germaphobes will keep away from that ish. “But I doubt you have Gatorade and saltines and ginger ale hanging about. I’ll drop by and leave them on your doormat.”

He’s far too goddamn decent. “Please don’t. Don’t come. I don’t want you here. Why won’t you take no for an answer? Weren’t you the one who taught me that ‘no’ is a complete sentence? Why are you pushing this?”

There’s silence on the other end, and I regret snapping. It’s not his fault. He’s trying to be kind because that’s what he does, and I shouldn’t discourage him from being that way because it’s one of the best things about him. Besides, I’m the one who showed up on his doorstep last night with no invitation, no notice, and he welcomed me. Gave me clean, dry clothes, a comfortable bed to sleep in, and made me breakfast when he could’ve turned me away. Would probably have been more comfortable if he had.

“That’s fair and I apologize. You’re right. Did you know my brothers used to call me Saint Lowry? Always trying to help even if people didn’t want help. It’s a bad habit of mine, and I’m sorry I’m inflicting it upon you. You deserve your privacy. I won’t come by if it will really bother you.”

Goddammit, there he goes again. Being a good, respectful person. Which is of course why I concede. But only an inch.

“Fine. I like the purple Gatorade. And the white. Orange is the worst. You bring that shit here and I’ll puke on you.”

“Brilliant. I’ll be by round seven thirty. Take it easy for the rest of the day, aye?”

Sure, sure, I’ll coddle myself so I recover from my fake illness. I do my best to imitate one of his Scottish grunts and fail, likely sounding as though I’m about to have another round of vomiting because I’m sexy like that, and then I hang up.

* * *

Lowry

Armed with a bag full of Gatorade and crackers, I make my way down the hallway toward Starla’s apartment. The odds of her actually being ill are near zero, but props never hurt. Particularly when I’ve bought my way into seeing her or at least being near her with the promise of the sort of food you only resort to when sick. Except maybe not Starla. She probably eats this for lunch regularly because for a rich girl, she’s got some dime-store taste when it comes to cuisine.

I knock on her door and am utterly unsurprised when she responds with a shouted, “Just leave it. I told you that you don’t want a piece of this. I have the plague.”

The woman is… If she weren’t so infuriating, she’d be adorable. I mean, she is that too, which is part of the reason she’s infuriating. If only she were sick, she might let me take care of her. But since I suspect it’s more her emotions than her body that feel like utter shite—and because of me—it’s no wonder she’s yelling at me through the door.

I’d called Maeve in between patients and told her about Starla showing up last night and her text claiming illness since.

“You know, for such an intelligent man, you’re awfully dense sometimes.”

“I’m offended, how—”

“You’re no such thing. You’re calling precisely because you want someone to tell you that you’re thickheaded and I’m only too happy to do it.”

I’d made a noise to let her know she was right, but I wasn’t happy about it.

“Here’s the deal: you want her, she wants you. I know you’ve got some sort of complex about it because you’re Saint fucking Lowry, but you need to get over that. And you’re going to have to go after her and fall on your sword real hard. You need to tell her you fucked up. Give her all the explanations you want, but the bottom line is that you hurt and embarrassed her even though you want the same things. So go apologize before I have to fly halfway across the country to drag you over to her apartment by the ear so I can smash your faces together already. Honestly.”

I did not want Maeve doing anything of the sort, so here I am with a sacrifice of only the best colors of Gatorade and some actual saltines. Which are frankly, getting heavy, so I set them down, and lean my forehead against the door. I don’t have a sword handy, so this will have to do. I take a deep breath before I fall. Or rather, throw myself.

“I know why you canceled dinner. And it wasn’t stomach flu. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you last night. That wasn’t my intention at all. But for my own peace of mind…”

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