Page 16 of Pretend You Love Me
“Ibuprofen and water,” he says. I just blink.
“For your wrist...and your head.”
There’s been a dull ache in my head and my neck since the crash, and my wrist is throbbing.
“Thanks,” I say, taking them.
He just watches me. The only sound I hear is the refrigerator humming.
“How much?” I ask when I’m finished taking the pills.
“How much what?” His head is cocked to the side.
“For the place. I need to know how much, so I know whether or not I can pay you.”
“Nothing,” he shrugs.
“Nothing?”
“Yeah, nothing, as in free.”
“I’m not going to stay here for free.”
He jabs his thumb between his eyebrows and rubs. “Well, I'm not taking your money so I don’t know who else would take it.”
“Kip.”
“Ginger.”
I’m about to launch into a whole tirade about how I’m paying him when his phone rings. He holds up his hand for me to stop talking, and then he answers it.
“Leery, my least favorite person in the world, how you planning to torture me today?” he says into the phone as he walks to the patio door.
Well, at least it’s good to know I’m not the only one he’s a grumpy bastard to.
I sit down at the island and strum my fingers while I wait. I’m not trying to eavesdrop, but I can hear about seventy-five percent of his conversation without even trying. With a little straining, I can hear everything.
“No, I don’t have it,” he says, pacing. He’s stiff - his entire body looks tense. I want to rub his shoulders and get him to calm down. I laugh to myself. Maybe I should go outside and suggest that hecalm down? I wonder how well that would go.
“I can’t focus,” he says. “I’m trying, but...”
He lets out a heavy sigh while he listens.
“It may be over for me. I don’t think I can deliver anymore.”
Deliver?I wonder what he’s talking about.
“I know. I know. Other people are counting on me, but I’m coming up short. Leery, it’s been four fucking years. I don’t think I can turn this around.”
I’m leaning a bit closer. If I really strain, I might be able to hear what Leery is saying.
“I don’t want to see your fucking therapist,” he yells. I didn’t have to strain to hear that.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t need the money. Why are we doing this?”
God, I wish I could hear the other end of this call.
“Okay, fine, I’ll call the goddamn therapist, but I won’t like it,” he says, and then he stabs his finger into his phone to hang up. He runs his hands through his hair and then kicks one of the chairs, knocking it over.
