Page 87 of This Spells Love

Dax has never been good at letting anyone take care of him. I have never been good at backing down once I’ve set my mind to something. This back-and-forth will likely end with a twenty-minute passive-aggressive argument in front of the Rexall leading to an unnecessarily obscene Uber bill—unless I impose some tough love.

“You are hurt. I have a script for some very magical pills in my hand. I’m gonna go in. You can take off and leave me stranded, but I know you won’t do that because no matter how pissed off I make you, you’re never an asshole.”

“Gemma—”

I fling the car door open, not letting him finish.

The pharmacist’s name is Stan. We talk sports while he fills my prescription. I talk up my curling abilities to impress him, and I think it works because along with Dax’s pills he hands me a Coffee Crisp from the candy bar rack “on the house.”

As I expected, Dax and the Uber are waiting for me when I get out, although he doesn’t say too much on the ride home.

There’s no make-out in the corridor tonight. Only me following Dax up the stairs, half-worried that he’s going to pass out from the pain and that I’m going to have to catch him.

I’m relieved when we reach the third floor and his door is in sight.

Dax reaches for his keys, and as he shifts his body, it gives me an unobstructed view of his door and the white piece of paper taped to it. I scan the twelve-point Times New Roman font, not quite registering that I’m invading Dax’s privacy until I read the words that turn my blood cold.

In the movies, eviction notices are blunt and impersonal. Big block letters spell out with certainty that you’re days away from being tossed into the street. Alexander Tsang, apartment manager, Cayley Court Apartments, appears to be a much gentler soul. He explains that Dax is three months behind on his rent, and if he doesn’t settle his debt by the end of the month, they will have to ask him to seek other accommodations.

Whether it’s the pain or the late hour, Dax doesn’t notice the note until his key is in the door. His eyes immediately fly to me, and we exchange an unsaid conversation.

You saw that?

I did, and I’m sorry.

He pushes his door open and flips on the light. The apartment looks the same as it did the other night, although in the context of the last few hours, I start to see a pattern emerge that I completely missed before.

“Is everything okay?” I mean it in the context of his life, but Dax responds by ripping the notice from his door and crumpling the paper into a ball.

“That’s a misunderstanding. I’ll sort it out in the morning.”

I know he’s lying. It’s the way he turns away so I can’t see his face.

“You know you can tell me anything, Dax,” I coax.

He lets out a frustrated groan, scrubbing his left hand down his face. “You can’t wave a magic wand and fix my life, Gemma. This clusterfuck has been years in the making.”

“But maybe I can—”

“You can’t.” His voice is sharp. “And I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful because you are amazing, and I appreciate you coming tonight, but what I need is for this day to be over and to go to bed. Alone.”

His emphasis on that final word stabs a bolt of pain right through my chest.

I’m trying hard not to make this about me. He’s hurt. It’s late. Something is going on, and he’s obviously upset about it. But I don’t want to leave here unless I’m certain that he’s okay. Thatwe’reokay.

“Let me get you your meds, at least.” I reach for my purse and the white paper bag inside it. His fist slams down on the counter when he sees it, making him wince in pain so badly that he needs to grab the counter to steady himself. I try to grab for him, but he waves me off.

“Jesus Christ, Gemma.”

“Just take the pills, Dax. Why won’t you let me help you?”

Dax has always been more practical than stubborn. And with the pain lines etched into his forehead, I’m not surprised to see him reach for the pill bottle and pop two into his mouth.

“I’m going to bed,” he says again. “Please call me when you get home and let me know you made it safely.”

With that, he walks to his bedroom. A moment later, I can hear the sound of his sheets being pulled aside and him getting into bed.

I should go home. It’s clear Dax wants to be alone. I should respect his need for space. However, my irrational brain is spinning wild scenarios. What if he wakes up for a glass of water and the pain makes him swoon, and he smacks his head on the counter? Or what if he has some adverse reaction to the drugs? What if something happens to my best friend and I’m not here to help?

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