The Rom-Commers(39)

“It’s thumping now,” Charlie agreed. “But it wasn’t. Before.”

“Before?” I asked.

“Before you came in here like this in your robe with all your … hair, and—and put my hand on your chest. It wasn’t. Thumping.”

Oh.

“Just so you know,” he added. “For medical purposes.”

“I see,” I said.

We should probably stop touching each other’s chests now. That much was clear. But I couldn’t figure out how to make the transition.

“Could you google it for me?” I finally asked.

“Google it?”

“The symptoms of a heart attack. For women.”

I felt his lungs deflate with relief as he broke away to get his laptop. “Yes, of course.”

“I’m not allowed to google medical symptoms,” I said, to fill the silence as Charlie scrolled.

“Not allowed?” he asked, still scrolling.

“Back when my dad first got hurt, I developed a habit of frantically googling every tiny symptom that showed up. It kind of turned into a vicious cycle of hypochondria.”

Charlie looked over. “Hypochondria? But your dad really was hurt.”

“But I’d go down these rabbit holes. His shoulder would be aching, and I’d google ‘painful shoulder’ and two hours later I’d be convinced he had Parkinson’s. And MS. And shoulder cancer.”

“That’s not your fault,” Charlie said, going back to scrolling. “That’s just because you’re a writer.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “It is?”

“Believing in things that aren’t real? Making something out of nothing? Connecting dots that don’t need or want to be connected? That’s what all the best writers do.”

It felt weirdly good to hear Charlie Yates lump me in with all the best writers.

And it felt weirdly—unexpectedly—even better to know that I had just made his heart beat faster.

That’s when Charlie stood up with my diagnosis. “The internet doesn’t think you’re having a heart attack,” he said.

“It doesn’t?”

“It doesn’t. But it does think you’re having anxiety.”

“Ha!” I burst out. Then, at Charlie’s tilted head: “This is the least anxious I’ve been in ten years.”

No argument there.

“I’m a good person to talk to about this,” Charlie added, “because I coped with a lot of anxiety when I was sick.”

I frowned like he was bananas. “I don’t have anxiety. I just worry all the time.”

Charlie gave it a second and then said, “I’m just gonna let those words echo around the room.”

Fine. I saw his point. “But only because I have actual things to worry about.”

Charlie waved me off. “We don’t have to label it.”

“Thank you.”

“The point is,” he said, “the internet wants you to take slow breaths through your nose—five-point-five seconds in, and five-point-five seconds out.”

“Five-point-five?” I confirmed. “That’s what WebMD said to do?”

Charlie nodded.

“Can’t fight the internet, I guess.”

“True,” Charlie said. “Now start breathing.”

And then, after he’d watched me do a few breaths, he said, “The internet also wants you to ask me what I was hiding on my laptop when you walked in.”

That was unexpected. I frowned at Charlie. “You don’t have to—I don’t really—” Then, “Do you want me to ask you that?”

Charlie nodded. “I suspect you’ll like it.”

I suspected I wouldn’t. But okay. “What were you hiding?”

I edged around the dining table, and when he pulled a chair next to his and patted it, I sat beside him. Then he opened up his laptop and maximized the screen.

I peeked through squinted eyes, in case I needed to shut them again fast.

But it was just an illustrated image of a backyard.

“What is this?” I asked.

“It’s a video game,” Charlie said, “where you power-wash things.”

Then he pressed some keys, and a jet of water started spraying in first-person point of view, as if he were holding a power hose.

Charlie turned the hose onto a dreary gray sidewalk, and as the water moved along, it left a bright clean section behind. The hose also made a deep, brown-noise shushing sound, and once all the dirt was gone, the game made a very satisfying ding sound and gave him some points.

“This is what you were doing when I walked in?”

“Yep.”

“You were playing a video game where you virtually power-wash a sidewalk?”

“Not just a sidewalk,” Charlie said, starting on the patio beside it. “The entire yard.”

“But…” I started. And then all I could think to say next was, “Why?”

Charlie nodded, like Fair question. Then he said, “Because it’s fun. And Cuthbert likes it.”

Charlie started up again so I could see how soothed the guinea pig was by it. But glancing between the screen and the pig, I could see no discernible difference. Cuthbert was sitting there like a fluffball before Charlie started power-washing the side of that virtual doghouse, and he was sitting there like the exact same fluffball after.