Page 70 of The Man I Hate

“Sounds good to me.” I stifled an oncoming cough. “Let’s get to it.”

“Call me when you’re done.”

There was an annoying tickle in my throat. I needed to end our call, or I was going to end up in another coughing fit.

I tried to keep from drawing a breath. “We’ll talk then.”

“I meant what I said,” she said. “About the cough.”

“I heard you,” I replied. “We’ll talk later. When we’re done with the book.”

As soon as I hung up the phone, the coughing started. It didn’t end until I was too exhausted to continue.

A wave of body aches surged through me, repeatedly.

The high fever and accompanying chills were next.

Anna

Day 7

I finished the book a little after midnight. I enjoyed it so much that I reread at least half of it, immediately. I eventually fell asleep at about 4 am. When I awoke five hours later, I felt like I’d been cheated out of half my day.

Feeling invigorated by my resurrected love of reading, I sprung from my bed and checked my phone. There were no messages or missed calls. Assuming that Braxton stayed up all night reading no differently than I did, I dismissed the fact that he had not called.

I ate breakfast, showered, and picked my outfit for the day. Braxton and Marge’s consistent presence in my day-to-day life had changed my outlook on everything from the food I ate to the clothes I wore.

The friendship Braxton and I now shared was playful, expectation free, and without the problems associated with a sexual relationship. I looked forward to the time I shared with him as much as I did my afternoons with Marge.

At 11:00, after hearing nothing from Braxton, I sent him a text message confirming I had finished the book.

The next hour seemed to drag on forever. Braxton didn’t contact me, leaving me wondering if his cough worsened, or if he had grown sicker as the night progressed.

I tried calling, but there was no answer. I recalled what Braxton said during my makeshift interview about his sleeping habits. He claimed he never slept more than 5 hours a night. He shouldn’t be sleeping.

I began to wonder if he’d grown sicker, or if he needed help.

I called again. And then, again.

I debated whether or not to beat on his door. By the time 1 o’clock arrived, that’s exactly what I did.

Donning a facemask, rubber gloves, and a package of Clorox wipes, I sterilized Braxton’s door. Then, I pounded on it with all my might. I paused. The sound of a distant truck on the highway was the only sound to be heard. I tried the handle.

Locked.

I pounded and pounded, calling Braxton’s name as I pummeled the door with my knuckles, fist, and foot. Continued silence. It was time to call the police. I fumbled to retrieve my phone with my sweaty hands slathered in rubber.

Someone unlocked the door.

I took a few steps back and waited for it to open.

The door opened, slowly. Braxton was leaning against it to keep from falling over. It appeared he was wearing the same outfit as the day before, but with one difference. His clothes were drenched in sweat.

My heart sank into my stomach.

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

He shook his head. “I ache.”