Page 27 of Reluctantly You

What if I’m the reason he’s gone?

I round the corner and see Mitchell lying face down on the couch, wearing only boxers, the cat on his ass, meowing loudly at me. Without a thought, I kneel down and press a hand to Mitchell’s shoulder. It’s warm, his breath coming out in a rush as his eyelids flutter open and he meets my concerned stare.

But he doesn’t say anything, just blinks at me.

The cat makes its way up Mitchell’s bare back and nuzzles against my hand, wanting to be petted. I scratch under its chin as I ask, “Mitchell. Are you unwell?”

He doesn’t say anything, just closes his eyes.

I roll my lips between my teeth and glance around. I don’t see anything amiss, but I can tell that he hasn’t moved much inthe past couple days. There’s food on the counter, things not put away. There’s a bit of a stale odor in the air.

It’s like he laid down on the sofa and never got back up again.

I push myself up and make my way to the kitchen. It’s there I find the stacked cans of cat food, so I refill the food and water bowls before emptying the litter box. Mitchell still hasn’t moved. He’s just lying there, prone, eyes shut.

Shit. I can’t fire him when he’s in this state.

This is not what I wanted. I wanted it to be simple, gratifying, but this is nothing like that. The fact that he’s made this more complicated makes me even angrier. He’s no longer just pouting and belligerent, he’s completely shut down.

“Mitchell,” I say again as I watch the kitten lap up the wet food. “You need to get up.”

He doesn’t do as I request. He seems to be barely breathing.

I run a hand down my face and move toward him. Crouching down once more, I press my hand to his shoulder and jostle him.

“You need to get up,” I say again, my voice firm and commanding. His eyelids flutter open and he glowers at me.

“Fuck off,” he mutters.

Well, at least he can still talk. At least he’s coherent. But I hate those two words. It’s all he seems to say.

“Get up. You’ve missed work. You can’t just lie here.”

“I can,” he rasps and then closes his eyes.

My mouth moves into a frown and my heart rate accelerates. This man. He…he makes me so fucking mad. So furious, and yet a part of me aches. It throbs. I rub at my chest and press my fist to it.

I will not feel sorry for him. I will not.

“Get the fuck up,” I bite out and see him roll his eyes behind his closed eyelids.

Something inside of me snaps, and I reach around to his side and pull him up. I can smell him, the stench of an unwashed body, and I now know he hasn’t showered in some time.

“You stink,” I grunt when I force him to sit up. His ass slides to the floor, his back against the couch. His legs are sprawled before him, his hands lying limply on the ground. He’s not even fighting back.

Something’s not right. Something is very wrong.

Flashbacks of my dad filter through my mind, limp and lifeless, and I feel my chest constrict.

No. No. Not again.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I hiss, and he just leans his head against his shoulder, his eyes focused on the wall opposite me. Like he’s half dead already.

“Did you take something? Do I need to call 911?”

He mouths “no” and I peel his eyelids back, checking his pupils, but they look okay.

I watch him for a moment, my eyes tracking the orange fluffball settling on his lap and purring. It doesn’t seem worried. Don’t animals sense when something’s wrong? Fuck, I don’t know. Honestly, Mitchell doesn’t seem like a man who owns a cat, or any living thing really. But then again, I don’t fucking know. I don’t know anything at the moment.

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