Page 62 of Breaking Away

You got it, Princess.

She keeps apologizing as I carry her again, but I force myself to ignore it.

“Do I need to take you to the doctor, Basra?” I ask, scanning her repeatedly with my eyes. My gut twists into a knot. She’s not looking good.

“Already went to the doctor. Just need meds. They—at home.”

Buckling her up in my truck, I break a few speeding laws getting her there. The route is familiar. Her dad’s the coach ofour hockey team. I’ve been here a handful of times, but never for long.

Parking my truck outside, I carry her inside her house. There’s a code to the front door she whispers to me. Inside, the house is empty. Nobody is home. Taking off my dress shoes, I lift her up the stairs.

“Second door,” Kavi says with a sigh.

It’s her bedroom. There’s no time to look around or to think too deeply about how I’m where I don’t belong. When I put Kavi down on her bed, she clings to the pillows.

“Where are your meds?” I ask.

“Kitchen counter.”

I’m sprinting downstairs. It takes me a few precious minutes to find them and to fill up a glass of water. By the time I get back, Kavi’s somehow taken off her dress, put on a worn t-shirt, and climbed under the covers.

Her eyes flutter open. “You’re still here?”

“Meds.” I hold them up. “Take them. Unless you need to see a doctor, Basra? I can drive you.” I look back over my shoulder at the door. “Where are your parents…”

Her pink hair spreads out like a whimsical halo. The smile she gives me doesn’t reach her eyes. “My parents have gone out to network. My dad’s focusing on his career these days. He’s thinking of moving us to Seattle for this big opportunity he might have.”

“Do they know you’re sick?” My tone is harsh.

“It’s fine.”

It’s not.

I go down on one knee beside her bed. Being a tall, built, six-foot-four guy takes up a lot of room. If she wants me gone, I’ll leave right away, but until then I’m making myself less intimidating by any means necessary.

“Hey.” My voice is barely audible. “Take your meds.”

She takes them from me, pulling herself up to swallow them. When she drinks water, her throat bobbles. Kavi drains the glass. I pluck it out of her fingers, ready to go refill it when she covers her face with her hands.

“Sorry–I’m sorry you have to be here. I know I look like shit. And I have no energy, which means I can’t even take all this makeup off before I pass out…”

Attached to her bedroom is a bathroom. I stand up and go find a washcloth. Wetting it with cold water, I go back to Kavi, kneeling again.

She’s rolled onto her side. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is even. How do I know? I time it with mine. The soft brush of the back of my hand against her forehead tells me she’s warm but not burning up. Her body is no longer shaking but slumped in her bed.

At this point, I could get up and leave.

I don’t.

Using the damp washcloth, I start the slow process of taking off her makeup, applying the lightest pressure I can. When I’m done, Kavi leans closer. Her eyes are still closed. The cold must feel good.

I go back to the bathroom, grab a second washcloth, and run it under cold water. Then I go back to that spot beside her bed and press it against her forehead. Her pleased sighs…

I’m collecting them. For I can’t stop wanting more. And I can’t stop telling her she’s going to be okay. Again, I should leave, but I don’t. It’s because I have a Kavi Basra problem.

It started from the first moment I saw her.

The only kids around were the few ones taking summer classes and me. I had come earlier than anyone, waiting for my dad to show up and register me at this new school. No one should have been around, but there she was. The girl with hair the color of a tacky crayon and a zit on her cheek.

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