Page 56 of The Man I Hate

He pointed behind his shoulder with his thumb. “I’m going to go pick that drive-thru sandwich up off the floor and make something else to eat. Do this again, sometime?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll have my people get with your people and set something up.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” I said. “It was sure nice to meet you, Rourke, Braxton Rourke.”

“Likewise.”

Braxton

Day two.

I paced the floor like a nervous cat. My father’s lungs were failing. His only hope for survival was the respirator that was doing the breathing for him. The hospital couldn’t give me any information beyond “we’re doing all we can”, no matter how frequently I called or who I talked to.

What little time I wasn’t pacing the floor, I was sitting at the kitchen island on my laptop, reading practices, procedures, and professional opinions of how to stop the disease from attacking the respiratory system of its victims.

There wasn’t anything that had been proven. Not yet. There were only theories based on opinions. Nothing—not one procedure—was backed with facts or statistics.

Filled with frustration, I questioned the existence of God. How could a compassionate and caring God allow anything so deadly and unpredictable to encompass the globe? Why did he allow the world’s most intelligent minds to scratch their heads in wonder, clueless of what to do to treat the novel virus?

I took my temperature every thirty minutes, only to find that nothing had changed. The disease may have been highly contagious, but it wasn’t predictable.

I wanted to trade places with my father. I’d give anything to be fighting for my own life and allow my him to healthily pace the kitchen floor, worried. He’d lived through one of the deadliest wars the United States had ever seen. For a virus to take his life without warning or reason seemed unfair.

Pratt called repeatedly, but I didn’t answer. To hear “I told you so” or “I warned you” would only worsen matters. I needed to find a way to dig myself out of the state of depression I was in, not fall deeper into it. Pratt was going to have to wait.

Mindlessly, I marched through the living room and did an about-face when I reached the northern wall. I headed toward the kitchen. Upon reaching the sink, I turned around and started over, again. At the rate I was going, I’d have a path worn into the finish of the hardwood flooring in no time.

Midway through my 1,374th lap for the day, a knock at my door startled me out of the hypnotic state I’d slipped into.

I glanced at the security monitor on the kitchen countertop. In the upper right-hand pane, there was an image of Anna running across my yard. I laughed to myself. I meandered to the front door and opened it.

She’d placed an open-top box directly in front of the door. A folded sheet of paper sat atop several filled Ziploc bags, a bottle of wine, a bottle of canola oil, and a small box sealed with Amazon Prime tape. I picked it up the box and gazed toward Anna’s door.

She stood in the threshold of the doorway. Her frumpy sweats and oversized tee shirt had been traded for a form-fitting turquoise dress and pumps. Her hair was pulled close to her head and braided tightly.

She looked remarkable.

“Read the note, and then call me,” she said with a smile. “We’re having dinner together.”

She closed the door.

I carried everything inside and placed the box on the kitchen island. I unfolded the note and read Anna’s neatly written offering.

Braxton,

Let’s make our own new normal, together. We’ll start with Italian Wednesday (Taco Tuesday is so overrated).

We’ll be having chicken parmesan, a tomato-mozzarella salad, and cabernet sauvignon. Everything you’ll need is in the box. Well, almost everything.

Please shower and get dressed as if we were going out. I refuse to eat Italian unless I’m dressed for the occasion.

When you’re ready to get started, call me. We’ll cook it together. Make it quick, I’m starving.

Your friend,

Anna