Checked Again (Checked Series)

by Jennifer Jamelli

  Type. Type. Type. Him. Him. Him. Type. Type. Type. Him. Him. Him. Type. Type. Type. Him. Him. Him.

  Type. Him. Type. Him. Type. Him.

  Eventually, at 9:10 p.m. (so says the clock on my netbook), I finish my article.

  Proofread. Proofread. Proofread.

  9:58 p.m. Send email and article to Dr. Hause.

  Done. Close netbook. Sit on bed. Wish I had nail polish on my nails. Hope Mandy packed nail polish in my travel bag. Wonder where my travel bag even is.

  Wonder where he is. Wonder what—

  Someone is knocking on the door. Please don’t let it be Dr. Gabriel. Please don’t let him know where my room is. Please don’t let anyone tell him.

  I swing my legs off of the bed and head to the door. I stop right in front of it, trying to look out the peephole without actually putting my eye up to the peephole…you know, the little hole in the door where millions of eye germs must be lurking. Pink eye germs. Glaucoma germs. Cataract germs. I don’t know which of those are contagious. But it doesn’t matter—I don’t want to be anywhere near any peephole germs whatsoever.

  I try a few different standing positions, but I don’t succeed in actually seeing through the peephole. I could just ask who is on the other side of the door, but if it’s Dr. Gabriel, then he’ll know I’m here and awake…and I’ll have no choice but to open the door.

  But if it’s not Dr. Gabriel and it’s Dr. Blake…then, if I don’t say something soon, he might go aw—

  “Callie?” Low voice. Quiet voice. His voice.

  “Callie? I have something I need to give you. Can I come in?”

  “Yes.” The word comes out of me right away. Unfortunately, my hand doesn’t reach out to turn the door handle quite so easily. Out of habit, I turn to go into the bathroom to get a tissue and—

  “Step back. I’ll use my key so you don’t have to touch the handle…even though it really is clean.”

  Oh. Perfect. {Lorde. “Royals.”}

  I stand in the little hallway, a couple steps away from the door. The door makes some sort of mechanical, key accepting noise, and then it starts to open slowly.

  And he’s back. He steps into the room, my bag slung over his shoulder. He takes off his shoes, puts them on the towel beside mine, and then turns to guide the door shut behind him. His eyes don’t meet mine.

  Still in the same clothes. White shirt lazily tucked into black pants. Unbuttoned at the collar. No tie.

  Still sort of dressed for work.

  He is still sort of working, I guess. Working on location. After hours. Taking care of a—

  “I brought your stuff.”

  Still not meeting my eyes, looking beyond me, he shrugs my bag off his shoulder. He doesn’t need to tell me that he’s cleaned the outside of my bag. I know he did…that he wouldn’t not clean it. Plus, I can smell Lysol in the air between us.

  I don’t know exactly how he managed to get my bag, my stuff, from whatever room it was initially taken to when we arrived at the hotel…but I’m not surprised that he figured out how to get it…not surprised that he figured out a way to make things better for me. He always does. {Lorde gets to her refrain again.}

  “Thank you.” I say it quietly. Even though he’s not looking at me. Maybe not even hearing me.

  I watch as he moves past me, places my bag on the bed, grabs the remote control from the nightstand, and walks to the television. He does all of this without a glance in my direction, without acknowledging that I said anything…making me wonder if words actually did even come out of my mouth.

  Maybe it’s like that tree in the forest thing. If someone says something and no one is listening, perhaps no—

  He turns the television on, and voices from a commercial fill the room…a commercial for a dating website…voices bragging about how easy it is to meet someone…to date…to fall in—

  The television clicks to a new station and then another. Then another. I can’t see the screen because his body blocks it. I can only see him, the back of him. I hear scraps of noise blaring out from each passing channel. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click. Cl—

  Stop. The clicking stops. A young male voice says something about oven temperatures. {Lorde keeps singing her refrain. Over and o—}

  He turns around to…well, to not look at me. To look past me again. I just look down as he talks, hoping it will feel less awkward that way. It doesn’t.

  “When I said that everything has been cleaned, I meant everything. I used those medical wipes on the small things like the remote…the bolt on the door…the thermostat.” He pauses. He still doesn’t look at me. “Also, the batteries in the smoke alarms in this building were changed last month. I checked with a manager. If a fire would happen, which is highly unlikely, you would just exit using the stairs we took to get up here.”

  I nod, keeping my head down, trying not to think about unattended candles, plugged in irons and hair straighteners and—

  And not succeeding in not thinking about any of those things. There are so many floors…so many rooms…so many people staying here. The odds that every single person in every single room will be responsible and not forget—

  “I’ll be right across the hall, in room 317. If an alarm goes off or if you hear a strange noise, or…or if you need me somehow—”

  He breaks off. I don’t look up.

  Need you how? Need you to stop being so sad? Need you to look at me? Need you to stop changing moods every three seconds? Need you to—

  {Alias comes back with “(I Need You Now) More Than Words Can Say.” The—}

  “I really am horrible for you, Callie.”

  What?

  My faces shoots upward and—

  And he’s actually looking at me. Right into my eyes.

  Stunned, without thinking, I look right back down. Away from the mess of frustration and exhaustion that is his face right now.

  Quietly, he continues. “I’m not helping you. I’m enabling you. I’m letting your condition win.” He pauses. “With OCD—”

  He starts to get all doctory, blurting out numbers and statistics…research about treating a mental disorder. He starts to use the words “okay” and “all right” again and again…just like he used to during our appointments.

  I stop listening. I keep my head down, and I close my eyes. Once again, I see myself in my hospital bed…I see him beside me, saying goodbye. I watch it all happening, imagine it all happening…me lying there unmoving, unresponsive…him getting up and walking out the door.

  He left. He left me alone. Right in the middle of a nightmare of needles and doctors and other patients and disgusting hospital gowns and unimaginable diseases and—

  And he’s probably about to do it again. He—

  Eyes open. My head flings up, and my mouth starts moving, cutting off his medical lecture. “You are going to leave again, aren’t you? You have me right in the middle of another scary situation, in a hotel room for the first time in, well, I don’t even know how long. You are going to leave me here, alone, and you—”

  STOP, Callie. STOP. STOP.

  His eyes meet mine. His eyes. Pained. Bruised. Vulnerable. {Damien sings. Very slowly.}

  I open my mouth to apologize, to try to take away the look in his eyes, but he starts talking before I get any words out.

  “You think I want to upset you…to hurt you…to leave you?” His eyes scrunch together as he speaks, as he almost whispers his words. “You think I haven’t replayed those last few minutes with you in the hospital a million times? You think I haven’t regretted leaving you?” He pauses and takes a single step toward me.

  I don’t move a muscle.

  He continues. “You think I haven’t thought about you every single—” He shakes his head and takes another step toward me. His eyes burn into mine. My eyes fight to blink, but I don’t let them. I watch him. I listen to him. “Callie, when I told Mandy that things…that we…ended because of you…Callie, it was true.” A rush of words now
comes out of him. “None of this is fair to you…me constantly comparing you to…to Mom…it’s not fair…and I can’t seem to stop. But I want to stop, Callie.” He pauses. “I want—” Another pause. “What I want—”

  Out of the lower corner of my eye, I see his arm reach forward to—

  To me.

  His strong, warm fingers circle around my hand. His eyes close for a beat as soon as his skin meets mine.

  My eyes, now blurry, struggle to do the same…to blink for a second…to shut for just a moment. But I don’t let them. I don’t look away.

  He slowly raises his eyelids. His breathing is loud now. Heavy.

  He tugs my hand, tugs me closer to him. “What I want, Callie—”

  He leans in toward me. His face. His eyes. His lips. All coming closer. His eyes still on mine, his hand clutching my fingers, his lips so close to my lips, he breathes in and out and in and out and in and out…

  So heavy. So fast.

  I try to breathe, but nothing comes. Nothing comes.

  “Callie, what I want is to…to…” He squeezes my hand. Hard. “I want to hold your hand. A lot. Everywhere. I want to—”

  He pauses and closes his eyes again. {Damien sings.}

  Eyes still closed, lips still right here…breathing on me, he continues. “I want to kiss you, Callie.” His eyes flip open. And they are just…just scorching. “A lot. Everywhere.”

  Involuntarily, my lips part, my own heavy breathing needing an escape.

  Eyes on eyes. Fire on fire on fire on fire on fire on—

  He moves closer. “I want to—” His lips brush mine as he speaks.

  We both freeze. Lips touching. Not moving. A groan, a sigh, breathes out of him…breathes right into me. Right past my lips.

  And then his lips start moving. Mine start moving. Our mouths crash into each other. Over and over and over. {Dave Matthews Band enters with “Crash into Me.”} And over and over and over. He releases my hand and puts both of his arms around my waist, pulling me in and in and in. I slide one of my hands up to his face, running my fingers over the slight stubble on his cheek, his neck. His tongue slides slowly between my lips…teasing me…tasting me. I use my free hand to grab his open shirt collar, to pull him as close as—

  He rips his lips off of mine, pulls his face back to look at me. His eyes are still on fire. “Callie, I want this…I want you.” He blinks his eyes yet again as his mouth raises slightly in a lazy, heated smile. My fingers slide from his neck to his lips, tracing the upturned shape of his mouth. He starts talking again, my fingers still on his lips. “But I want you to get better too. And I—”

  He pauses and closes his lips around my fingers. His tongue grazes the tip of my thumb, and his eyes close as he slowly sighs. {“Crash into Me.” Refrain refrain refrain.}

  My fingers…my lips…my body—everything starts prickling…tingling…

  He opens his lips again, but his eyes remain closed.

  My fingers don’t move from his mouth.

  He exhales, covering my fingers in warm breath. “Callie, I have to come up with a way to make you better. A way that doesn’t involve me being your doctor anymore.” His eyes gradually lift open. Hot, feverish eyes.

  He turns his head slightly to kiss my fingers.

  More tingling.

  Then he continues to speak. My fingers bounce up and down between his lips as words come out of him. “I can’t be your doctor. Not when what I want to do—” His voice is deep, husky. “The way I think about you…feel about you—” He grabs my hand and pulls it up, kissing the bottom of my open palm. “I can’t be your doctor.”

  {More Dave Matthews Band. Louder. More insistent.}

  My body, now trembling, aches to move closer to him. To—

  He pulls my hand down slowly, down to his chest. Through his thin dress shirt and undershirt, I can feel the heat from his skin…the thumping of his heart.

  His hand presses into mine, mashing my fingers against his chest.

  We both breathe. Eyes. Still. Locked. Together. {DMB. Still. Singing.}

  He groans again…almost growls.

  “If I don’t leave now, I’m—”

  His heart beats faster. Mine does too.

  He shakes his head. “I can’t think around you, Callie. Not at all.” His hand starts moving back and forth over mine. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. Burning and burning and burning.

  He whispers, “I have to go. I have to figure something out. Another treatment. Another doctor. Something.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that I don’t want another doctor…that I doubt I’ll be able to get myself to another doctor. I don’t get the chance to talk, though.

  Because he keeps talking. “And I don’t want you to think that this is why I came here. To—”

  He stops for a beat, his face flushed. “That’s not what I—I…I came here to help you.”

  I know that. Again, I open my mouth to speak and, again, he beats me to it.

  “And I will figure out a way to get you help. Soon.” He gently squeezes my hand, leans in to kiss the top of my forehead, and releases me.

  I stand…frozen…feverish…and watch the back of him…watch him pick up his shoes and open my door and leave…leave for now.

  After the door clicks shut, I just stand. In silence. I don’t move. Can’t move. And—

  And I hear my phone buzzing in my purse.

  I turn slowly and move over to the bed, right over to where my purse is sitting. I pull out the phone and see that I have a new message. From him.

  One. Two. Three. Open.

  By the way, don’t worry when you get to the door-locking part of your routine—I really did clean the whole door—including the safety bolt…the lock…the handle. No one has touched the inside of the door since then…except me. And I’ve been told that I’m not considered to be “dirty.”

  He ends his text with a smiley face.

  My face smiles back at the little emoticon as I quickly reply with a “thank you.” I send my reply, put my phone back in my purse, and head back over to the door. Still smiling.

  And then it’s time for a modified night routine. Night Routine Hotel-style.

  Thermostat (right inside the door): already at 70 degrees (coincidence? Or his doing? I don’t know). Stove: nonexistent. Door: locked and deadbolted. Blinds: I don’t think there are blinds. The curtains are drawn, though. The window is covered. That will work. Alarm (on phone): set. Teeth: brushed with a brand new toothbrush and a brand new tube of toothpaste found in my travel bag (thank you, Mandy). Pictures: there is one big picture of a flower over the bed. It looks pretty straight. I don’t know if it’s been cleaned…he didn’t say…so I’m not touching it. It will have to do. Clothes for tomorrow: out (I found my green wrap-around dress and black pumps in my bag). Mandy’s room: well, I hope it’s clean. I hope Mandy hasn’t fallen asleep with stuff all over the floor. I hope she doesn’t get up in the middle of the night and trip and fall and—

  Mandy’s room: pray that Mandy’s room is clean. Pray that she doesn’t trip. Pray that she doesn’t hurt herself. Nails: painted (Thank you, thank you, thank you, Mandy. Great packing job). Email inbox: empty (I did get an email back from Dr. Hause, confirming the delivery of my article). Laundry: can’t do laundry here…well, I think that some people do send laundry away to be cleaned at hotels…to be put in washers and dryers that have held the dirty clothes of countless other people…that—

  Callie!

  Laundry: n/a. Entire hotel room: not dusted by me, but it looks like it was recently taken care of…probably during the sanitation process this afternoon. Kitchen: no kitchen. Bathroom: recently sanitized by a “reputable cleaner,” I’ve been told…told by a reputable doctor…a doctor who doesn’t want to be my doctor anymore. Because he wants to be something more. Perhaps because he ---- worries about me. Maybe because—

  Callie!

  Bathroom: I can’t bring myself to clean bathrooms that are not mine, so
this one is done. Evening shower: actually taken (I actually manage to take a hotel bathroom shower…probably has something to do with the sparkling white tile…the smell of Scrubbing Bubbles…the price tag hanging off of the shower curtain…) Body lotion: applied (Mandy was really on top of things). Pajamas: (Okay, well, Mandy was on top of toiletry-type items…with her pajama-packing decisions—not so much. She packed two pairs of flimsy, silky pajama sets, pajamas from the very bottom of my dresser drawer…ones she bought for me years ago—back when I was just starting out as an undergrad in college…and dating Tony. I’ve never worn them. Until now, I guess).

  Pajamas: on. Green silk cami and matching shorts. SHORT shorts. Pierce hoodie (which, thank God, was also in my travel bag): on over the skimpy, lacy pajama top. Hair: dried (Mandy packed the hair dryer and straightener I normally take to Mom’s house when I stay over). Prayers: said. TV: already on.

  1:15 a.m. I climb into bed. Exhausted, I close my eyes and relax. Relax…and wonder. Wonder what is going on across the hall in 317. Wonder if he is awake. Wonder if he’s thinking about me…about us.

  Wonder what would happen if I could get up the nerve to go over there right now…

  Chapter 17

  main conference session

  FRIDAY. 5:00 A.M. MY PHONE ALARM rings. My eyes flip open, and I spend a few minutes taking in my surroundings.

  Soft white pillows beside my head. A large flat screen television in front of me. A big desk. A small bar in the corner of the room.

  It all starts coming back to me quickly. Last night comes back to me. Memories of his voice…his words…his touch.

  Simultaneously, I feel both a flush and a smile creep onto my face. Both remain on my face as I push back the covers, step out of bed, and get started on my modified morning and leaving-the-hotel-room routines.

  7:40 A.M. AS I’M PUTTING MY phone into my purse, it buzzes. A new text.

  And it’s from Dr. Blake.