Page 48 of Faker
He chuckles. I turn around and see his face just as it transitions back to blank.
“Well, thanks again. For everything,” I say impatiently. A film of dried sweat pulls on my skin when I move. I ache to scrub it away under a stream of scalding hot water.
He doesn’t budge. “You sure you don’t need anything else?”
“Nope. I’ve got it from here.” I can’t remember ever having such a difficult time getting someone to leave my place.
I step around him to the front door and open it. He turns around to face me and shuffles. I notice he does the same thing with his feet when he’s sitting.
“You’re absolutely sure? I can stay and help out. It’s no problem.”
“Do you honestly think I need you to help me take a shower?”
He shakes his head, flustered. “No, no, that’s not what I meant. I didn’t know you were going to take a shower.”
“What do you think ‘clean up’ means?” I rub my forehead, sounding more curt than I mean to.
He sticks a hand in his hair, pulls hard, then yanks it out. “Right, yeah, sorry.”
“It’s fine. I’m just crazy sore and tired. Thank you for your help these past few days, but I’ll be okay on my own. I just need to rest.” I cross my arms, then uncross them, then cross them again.
“I get it. I’ll take off.” He exhales and walks quickly out the door. I lock it before he even makes it off my porch.
A wave of exhaustion hits, as do the words printed on the info packet. No showering allowed for forty-eight hours. I stumble tothe bathroom and give my body a half-hearted wipe down with a wet hand towel, then collapse on my couch.
I think about how Tate left, embarrassed and very clearly wanting to stay longer. I grimace at how short I was with him, how I practically pushed him out my front door. I should have been nicer. What would have happened if I had shoved aside my embarrassment and insecurity, and let him stay? It’s my last thought before I drift off.
Sleep is delirious and deep. A faint thud jerks me into a confused and groggy stupor, but I can’t be bothered to open my eyes. Probably the mailman dropping off a package. When I finally wake, it’s early evening, meaning I slept for a few hours.
Gripping the coffee table to pull myself up, I yelp in pain. Surgery has rendered my core ineffective. Evidently, my torso is made of Jell-O and Silly Putty. When I’m finally standing, I walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. I trot back into the living room, but then I remember the mail. I open the front door and see a small crate of mangoes sitting on the porch. Holy shit.
There’s a note card on top of the dozen or so greenish-orange fruits. There’s no name signed on it, but I know they’re from Tate. It’s his distinct all-caps handwriting. I crouch down slowly to pick it up:
These aren’t from the Big Island, but they’ll have to do.
I’m not risking destroying my abdomen muscles to pick up the crate, so I cradle a few in my arms and bring them to the kitchen. It takes three trips, but I manage. By the time I’m finished, mangoes litter the counter. I stare at them in disbelief, then arrange them into a “T” shape. It seems appropriate given who they’re from.
Pressing each with my fingertips, I find the ripest one. I peel and slice it, then devour the sweet, juicy chunks. I’m wide eyed,dumbfounded, and ravenous. I’m chomping on the final piece when I realize I’m smiling.
The next morning, I’m buzzing with a fructose high. The gift of mangoes was a shock. Maybe Tate’s kindness wasn’t short lived. Maybe this is a turning point. Maybe the care and attentiveness he showed me when I was sick is who he truly is. Or maybe the mangoes were a final thoughtful gesture before returning back to our status quo of arguments and loaded silence.
I spend the better part of the day wondering about it. Nothing I do eases my anxiety. I lie on the couch, YouTube my favoriteEat Bulaga!episodes, browse Etsy for antique jewelry I can’t afford, then take a slow walk around the neighborhood for a couple of blocks. Tate hovers at the back of my mind the entire time.
By the time evening rolls around, I’m lying on the couch again. The recovery packet says to rest and ease back into walking long distances. I’m a terrible patient. Luckily, today is Labor Day and our workplace is closed, but I need more time to recover. I call both Will’s and Lynn’s office extensions to leave messages about my unexpected surgery and how I’ll need the rest of the week off and part of next week to recover. And to think more about Tate.
I’m still at a loss as to what to do, torn between apologizing profusely and thanking him, or ignoring him and going back to normal. I’d also like to hug him. Maybe share a mango with him. I’m clearly on the brink of insanity.
I’m making my way through the mangoes like a starving monkey. Six are left, and the stem of the “T” is gone. They’re all I’ve been eating. Every time I eat one, I think of Tate. With each peel, slice, and bite, my brain floods with memories of his gentle, caring demeanor. How he cradled my body when we fell asleep together, the way he stayed by my side even when I told him to leave. The sense of comfort I felt around him that I’ve never felt with any guybefore. All of it leaves me breathless and wanting. Every time I think of his lips against my skin, there’s a tremor inside me.
I’m washing my hands of mango juice when I realize I can no longer deny it: I have feelings for Tate.
The realization tumbles around my head, giving way to other blush-inducing thoughts. I’d trade all the mangoes in the world to crawl under bedsheets with him again, this time sans clothing. I think I’ve felt this way since the moment I left his car the night we first kissed. I was just too stubborn and flustered to admit it.
Once my hands are dry, I grab my phone to text him. I start, stop, erase, and edit a half dozen messages. They’re all wordy variations of “I’m sorry” and “thank you.” I suppose I could have just written that, but it sounds robotic. Even if this weekend was a one-off in his behavior, I want to be sincere in my gratitude. I finally settle on:
Hey. Sorry it took me so long to get in touch with you... it’s been a rough couple days... thank you for the mangoes. And thank you for taking care of me.
Not terrible, but not great. I’m brushing my teeth when my phone buzzes with a response from him:
