Page 54 of The Man I Hate

The exhaust note from Braxton’s SUV caught my attention. It was almost six o’clock. He’d been gone since just before noon. I peered outside just in time to catch a glimpse of him carrying a brown paper bag through his front door.

I wondered what he’d done all day. I doubted any of it was essential.

It frustrated me that he took time to send me a message, but never bothered to reply after I responded. It was painfully obvious his offer to apologize lacked sincerity. In Marge’s eyes he was a saint. In reality he was an inconsiderate self-centered prick.

With my phone paired to the television’s surround sound, I scrolled through my playlist. Upon finding Lady Gaga’s I’ll Never Love Again, I pressed play.

Listening to the song on loop, I contemplated sending him Braxton another message. I needed to tell him that he was an utter and complete asshole. While I mentally formulated the tongue lashing, a one sentence message popped up on my phone.

Can you come to your front door? I’m at mine.

I walked to the front door and opened it.

Braxton stood in his doorway with his arms dangling at his sides like strings. Wearing a stark white tank top, dark washed jeans, and a pair of dress socks, he appeared out of place. His attire wasn’t the only thing that was different. His face wore a distressed look.

It seemed as though he’d been defeated.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“This is day one,” he deadpanned.

“Excuse me?”

“Day one,” he said. “Of fourteen.”

“Oh. You did get my text message,” I said in as sarcastic of a tone as I could muster. “I didn’t think it went through, not having heard back from you and all. I thought maybe the cell towers were overloaded with people streaming Netflix on their iPhones.”

“I tested positive,” he said flatly.

My stomach turned. In my haste to hate fuck him, we didn’t bother to use a condom. The last thing I needed in my life was an STD.

“For what?” I blurted.

He swallowed hard. I prayed it was something an antibiotic could cure. I didn’t want a lifelong reminder of the poor decisions I’d made when it came to sex.

“COVID-19,” he replied. “Presumptive positive, anyway. I’ll know for sure in a day or two,”

My heart sank into the pit of my stomach. “What!?” I gasped. “How?”

I knew how. He’d been running around like there was nothing to worry about. I had to ask, nevertheless. No matter how he contracted it, I wouldn’t wish the disease on anyone. The thought of losing him, no matter how much of a prick he could be, was heartbreaking.

He raised his hand and took a bite of a sandwich. I wondered if he had it in his pocket, because I hadn’t even realized he was holding it.

“My father is on a respirator fighting for his life in Mercy Hospital,” he said over the mouthful of food. “He’s been in contact with no one, other than me. I touched him, carried him to the car, and we’ve shared cooking utensils in the last few days. They gave me some chicken-shit test. They said it’s inaccurate. They’re assuming I’m positive. The results from the real test won’t be until day after tomorrow, at best.”

I felt sick. I needed to say something reassuring, but I didn’t know what I could share that might make him feel any better.

I put on a false smile. “I saw this morning that a man in Iraq survived, and he was 103 years old. Then, there was this woman in Spain that was 101. She went home yesterday. How old is your father?”

“Seventy-five.”

“Pfft,” I waved my hand in his direction. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be just fine. Wait and see.”

“They won’t let me see him.” He lifted the sandwich, looked at it, and then lowered it without taking a bite. “I can’t even get into the hospital.”

“Probably for the best,” I said. “They’re trying to contain the spread.”

He nodded, repeatedly. Almost mindlessly. When his head stopped bobbing, he looked up. “I’m sorry.”