Page 62 of Cakes for the Grump
“There’s a closet over there. You can’t see it because it’s being blocked by the door right now.” I wag my finger at the entranceway.
Luke discovers the slim storage space. “I see you’ve escaped the trappings of materialism that most of us suffer from.”
“Shut up. I’ve got more clothes back in Mumbai.”
“Tell me, is there anything else you need other than what’s in this closet?”
“Under my bed is a suitcase. There are already clothes in there, so I would need those too.” I hold my head and press circles into my temples. “Not that I am coming with you.”
He walks back over to me, crouches down and digs out the suitcase, ignoring me. I swat at his arm, trying to stop him. He gently places my hands back into my lap. “Do you have anywhere else to go?”
“No.”
“Do you want to live under Janice?”
“No, but?—”
“Is she the type to let you keep staying here, after I’ve threatened her with legal action?”
No. Never. Not unless she can get away with punishing me without any risk.
“My friends who live here,” I argue. “I can’t leave without knowing if Janice is going to do anything to them.”
Luke stares at me. “You can barely stand up. I doubt you are any help in this condition. But I’ll tell my assistant to come by after we leave. Give me their names and room numbers.”
I rattle them off.
“Okay, then it’s settled,” says Luke. “You can argue later when you feel better. For now, tell me what to do. We are leaving before she comes back.”
And that’s how I eventually order Luke around without lifting a finger, sitting and swaddling in my blanket. If I had a competence kink, it would’ve flared up watching him pack away all my belongings into the suitcase. He is so orderly about the whole business, folding everything possible into perfect squares before putting them away. Heavier fabrics got rolled into tubes, and harder items get padded with clothes for safety. Thankfully, all undergarments are already put away in their separate bag so Luke can pack that away without being scandalized.
The whole process takes twenty minutes because I really did not bring a lot of stuff to Barcelona.
After that, Luke moves all of my stuff downstairs.Then he comes back and without giving me enough time to react, pulls me into his arms. I’m a trout fallen on land considering how much I wriggle in shock.
He scoffs, unworried.
Eventually, I stop. Then I regret my relaxation because I can’t keep thinking about his arms. The strength and warmth in them. How nice he smells. That I’ve never been physically bundled away like this. If he didn’t carry me out, I would have never known the pleasant heat sliding inside me. I would have never known myself to be grateful for being sick for it led to this moment.
I shut my eyes, hoping it will help.
It doesn’t.
SEVENTEEN
Judgingby the light dappling across the Mediterranean Sea, a view I can see through the window, I think I’ve only gotten a few hours of rest since the doctor left. Somehow it has made a difference. My fever is diminished, burning low only in the margins of my body. That doesn’t mean I’m not tired—I’m absolutely exhausted, but at least I can stand and walk around without collapsing. The liquid concoction that was prescribed by Luke’s doctor has accelerated my recovery. Another full day or two of rest and I might even become a functioning human again.
Normally that would be great news, but now that my grasp on consciousness is returning, I’m panicking.
These luxe bed linens aren’t mine, and I’m in a bedroom vastly larger than any I’ve ever slept in. The window letting sunlight in is basically a wall of glass leading to a private terrace adorned with swirly gothic railings, various potted ferns, and enough privacy that you can sunbathe naked overlooking the sea, with the city bustling below your feet.
All of this is lent. Again,not mine.
And relying on the charity of your boss after you’ve fought and somewhat made up with them is a very unsound security plan. But also, the thought of finding a place to live that comes under my budget (aided a bit here or there by maxed-out credit cards) fills me with dread. Is it even possible here? Can it be done? Should I return to Janice and beg for mercy?
I’ve called Mrs. Milla, Mr. Albo and Ms. Baghdadi. They say Janice has—strangely—canceled all their chores for now. I ask them whether I should come back. They tell me she frothed at the mouth when they mentioned my name. That there is no going back at this point.
They insist they are okay, and that they’ll keep me updated in case that changes. I promise to visit them as soon as I get better.
