Page 28 of Embracing the Beat
“Mikey? You there?” I call out. She doesn’t answer, and I drop my hand to the knob and twist.
Locked.
“Mike?” I try knocking again. “Everything okay?”
“Huh?” Her voice sounds muffled, like I woke her up. Shit.
“You feeling any better?” I call through the door, cursing the thick wood between us.
“What?”
“Can you let me in?” I turn the knob again like it will magically open.
“Not tonight, West. I’m going back to bed.”
“Do you want any medicine? Soup or something?” I bet Kelly has a can of chicken noodle in the kitchen.
“Not hungry.”
“Medicine?” I try again.
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, if you’re sure. Good night.” I hold my breath, waiting next to the door, but no response comes, and I finally retreat to my room.
Helplessness overwhelms me—knowing I can’t go in there and check on her, take care of her—grates.
She wouldn’t want you to take care of her anyway, asshole. You hurt her feelings.
I’d figured that out after I replayed our conversation in the kitchen for the fifteenth time while I was painting. Even if she had called our night together a mistake—fuck, I was beginning to hate the word—she’d originally come into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around me.
But nothing can happen between us. She’s a musician. I’m a teacher. She’s my best friend’s little sister. And I recently broke up with my fiancée. If all of that isn’t enough, she’s seven years younger than me, for Christ’s sake.
Still doesn’t mean I like how she said she could so easily forget our night together—it’s an acid that has eaten at me all goddamned day.
But I want to apologize—I’d been a dick before she lashed out. Figured she used the “not feeling well” as an excuse to leave the kitchen. Only now I feel worse. Because maybe she really is sick if she’s spent the entire day in her room.
I sleep like shit and hang around the kitchen for most of the morning, waiting for her to come downstairs. It’s been twenty-four hours since I saw her last. I’ve knocked a few times since I came back upstairs yesterday afternoon, and each time she’s mumbled that she’s resting. I’m beyond concerned. When noon hits and she still hasn’t made an appearance, I decide enough is enough.
I pop the lock on her door with a paperclip. Those damn hinges squeak as I push it open, but she doesn’t move within her pile of blankets on the bed.
“Mike?” I whisper.
The room is dark, stuffy, and she lies facing away from me. I step forward slowly, starting to sweat in the heat of the room. But she’s wrapped under a mountain of blankets like we’re in the middle of a winter blizzard.
“Mike?” I cup her shoulder through the blanket, and she tenses before rolling onto her back.
Even with the lack of light in her room, I can see how pale her skin is, the way her blond hair mats to her face. She finally peels her eyelids open, revealing her glazed and lifeless blue eyes.
“West?” Her throat sounds raw, and my own throbs in sympathy. “I locked my door.” She starts to lift her head but groans and closes her eyes before making much progress.
I sit gingerly on the bed. “Shh. I was worried about you, so I picked your lock.”
“Worried…” Her brow furrows.
