Page 15 of DILF

“Do you have a fever? Did you take anything? There’s Advil in the medicine cabinet. Maybe you should go to the doctor. Oh God, I shouldn’t have left. You never miss work. Maybe you need to go to the hos—”

“Charlotte!” I stop her rant. “I’m fine. Really. Don’t worry. I’m a grown-ass man. I know where everything is and I know when I need to go to the hospital.”

“Fine.”

“Just—” I inhale and exhale. “We’ll talk when I feel better. We still have things to discuss but I can’t do that right now.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Have fun. Not a lot, though.” She’s still with that asshole Randy, after all.

She giggles into the phone. “Okay. Love you, Daddy. Put Lily back on.”

I turn, and Lily is sitting on my couch with her legs on the coffee table going through one of the many magazines Charlotte has stacked up. She’s made herself comfortable instead of leaving, which is what she needs to do. I hand her back her phone and leave to look for mine in my bedroom. I need to call my boss.

A few minutes after calling Jim, I’m back in bed, an arm over my face and I’m trying to keep from throwing up again. A small hand touches my neck and then my head. “You have a fever.”

“You don’t knock?”

“The door was open.” I feel a dip on my bed. “Charlie’s worried.”

“Charlie’s always worried.” I move my arm and turn my head to find she’s sitting with her back against the headboard and her bare feet stretched out on my bed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You shouldn’t feel weird about me being here. Just forget what happened and move on.”

I turn my head. “It’s not weird, Lily.” I shut my eyes again. “It’s wrong.”

“I’m done talking about this and I’d appreciate it if we forget what happened in your car, okay? You’ve made things clear. Over and over again. I’m here because you’re all alone and feel like shit, not to mention the fact that you look like shit—”

“Language.”

I can picture her rolling her eyes. “And Charlie’s worried. And I’m bored in that house all by myself.”

“What happened to the asshole?”

“Language,” she says, and I can’t help but chuckle.

“He’s doing something with his brother today, I think.”

I can’t help but wonder if he stayed the night or if he is in fact her boyfriend. There’s jealousy raging inside of me, and it is not a welcomed or familiar feeling at all. It’s making my head throb more than it already is.

After some silence, she pats my thigh before climbing out of bed and walking out of my room. I turn around and pull the covers over myself and hope she’s truly gone so I don’t have to deal with her or all the feelings that come with being around her.

But I’m out of luck. Behind me, the bed dips again. “Sit up and drink this.”

I’m too tired and weak to question her, so I do as she says, and then quickly pass out. At some point throughout the day, I’ve stopped throwing up, and she brings me crackers and water to eat and drink. She touches my head a few times, but I’m too sleepy to care. I hear her voice and I think she’s talking to Charlie, but it’s hard to pay attention.

By the next morning, I’m feeling better and thankfully, Jim gives me the day off even though we’re busy and I should be in the office. I’ve only missed a handful of days in the last twenty years, so I figure I’m due, but still.

When I stand up, my entire body aches, and even though my stomach still feels uneasy, the throbbing in my head has dulled. I take a shower, brush my teeth, and dry my hair and beard with a towel. Pulling up a fresh pair of gym shorts, I walk downstairs when I see Lily sleeping on my recliner.

For a moment I think I’m dreaming it, but, nope, Lily is there,, half hanging off of the sofa. I walk over and toss the throw blanket that has fallen onto the floor back on her.

In the kitchen, I make coffee and toast and try to remember glimpses of her waking me up to give me medicine and feed me. She didn’t have to do any of that. She shouldn’t have done any of that. And with the shitty way I’ve treated her, I can’t believe she stayed.

I’m lost in my thoughts, elbow on the table, my head resting on my palms, when I hear her shuffle into the kitchen and place her palm on my head feeling for a temperature. “How do you feel?” she asks through a yawn.

“Better,” I grumble, watching her move to the coffee maker.

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