Page 44 of Beneath Cherry Blossom Memories
“Hi,” he says, breathing harshly and sweating. Massive purple bags hang under his eyes, and a hood is pulled over his head.
I stare at him, at the suitcase handle in his fist. He’s in black sweatpants and a gray hoodie. He came straight here from Vegas. And because I’ve seen Oli go through this too many times to count over the past eight years, I know he’s detoxing. Eli shivers, offering me the tiniest smile before he sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, hangs his head, andcries.
“I know I shouldn’t be here,” he weeps. “I don’t know where else to go, and I’m sick. I’m sick, Phoenix.”
There’s a sharp twist in my heart, a flicker of hope forming. “Are you hungry?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he laughs through his cry, lifting his eyes to mine. They are so startlingly blue right now. “I am.”
I take his suitcase from his hand, grab his other and gently guide him inside.
Eli is showering while I make him whole-grain pancakes with honey and berries.
I have a kettle heating up for tea.
It’s still breakfast-ish.
A lot of people eat breakfast at 11 am.
Helios rubs his body over my legs as if he senses I’m stressed and need the affection. The washing machine buzzes, letting me know Eli’s clothes are ready to change. I kill the fire under the skillet, use the spatula to scoop out the last two pancakes, and set them on the plate.
I switch over the load, throw in some fabric sheets, and press the button just as he emerges from the bathroom. He’s wearing one of my shirts and a pair of my sweats. The sweats are too big for him, so he’s got them tied as far as they go and rolled up at his ankles. My heart lurches seeing him clean and in my clothes.
He tucks a few locks of wet hair behind his ear, nibbling on his right lip ring and taking in the apartment. I know he feels like shit, but he’s being remarkably tough about it. We haven’t spoken since I told him to shower, so I wait impatiently for him to break the ice.
“Kelly is a packrat,” is what he settles on.
“She likes her things,” I say with a shrug.
When I first moved in here, I had similar thoughts. I’d even asked her where I was supposed to keep my stuff because her apartment was already so full. She just laughed at me. I don’t think it’d have the same charm without her random half-dead plants, posters, and mismatched art on the walls. Or the crystal bowls on the counter that hold old receipts and thumbtacks. Her zebra print throw pillow on the yellow sofa and the white rug that has a wine stain that looks an awful lot like someone died on it.
Kelly is chaos, but the good kind.
I cross the apartment and get Eli’s tea steeping. Grabbing the plate, I gesture for him to sit at the little table where I’ve shared many meals with Kelly when we want to be adults or when the couch has a pile of her unfolded laundry. “Pancakes okay?” I ask as he walks over to me.
“Perfect.” He sits down, his face gaunt and sickly, but he isn’t shivering.
There are a lot of things I want to ask. What ended up happening at the hospital? Why didn’t he get a plane and go home? I know Eli isn’t broke—he can afford last-minute airfare. I also want to know if he was prescribed anything for his stomach. I don’t imagine he can continue throwing up, but if he’s going through withdrawals, he might. I grab his tea and place it before him, unsure what to do with myself.
“What’s this?” he asks, smelling the tea.
“Camomille.”
“The calming tea,” he mutters before cutting into his pancakes.
Sitting across from him, I watch him take a ginger bite. His eyes lift to mine while he chews and swallows. “It’s good.” And he takes a bigger bite this time.
He eats faster with each bite. It's like he’s truly starving. The tea is sipped cautiously because it’s hot, but he drinks it all. I refill his plate, wondering how long it’s been since he’s had anything to eat. A drop of honey lands on his chin, and I have the urge to reach across the table and swipe it away with my thumb. I crave those little acts of intimacy that we don’t have anymore. It’s getting increasingly more difficult not to acknowledge anything. This isn’t normal; I’m not okay, and neither is he.
“About the hospital—” I say while he says, “I left Leon.”
My hand shoots to the back of my neck to rub it anxiously while he swallows hard and stares at his nearly empty plate. “Probably sounds so pathetic,” he says softly.
“It doesn’t.”
“I’m not mad that you left,” he tells me, rubbing his palms over his thighs.
“I didn’t want to,” I admit. “But I couldn’t stay. Everyone was waiting.”
