In the movies, eviction notices are blunt and impersonal. Big block letters spell out with certainty that you’re days away from being tossed into the street. Alexander Tsang, apartment manager, Cayley Court Apartments, appears to be a much gentler soul. He explains that Dax is three months behind on his rent, and if he doesn’t settle his debt by the end of the month, they will have to ask him to seek other accommodations.
Whether it’s the pain or the late hour, Dax doesn’t notice the note until his key is in the door. His eyes immediately fly to me, and we exchange an unsaid conversation.
You saw that?
I did, and I’m sorry.
He pushes his door open and flips on the light. The apartment looks the same as it did the other night, although in the context of the last few hours, I start to see a pattern emerge that I completely missed before.
“Is everything okay?” I mean it in the context of his life, but Dax responds by ripping the notice from his door and crumpling the paper into a ball.
“That’s a misunderstanding. I’ll sort it out in the morning.”
I know he’s lying. It’s the way he turns away so I can’t see his face.
“You know you can tell me anything, Dax,” I coax.
He lets out a frustrated groan, scrubbing his left hand down his face. “You can’t wave a magic wand and fix my life, Gemma. This clusterfuck has been years in the making.”
“But maybe I can—”
“You can’t.” His voice is sharp. “And I’m sorry if I sound ungrateful because you are amazing, and I appreciate you coming tonight, but what I need is for this day to be over and to go to bed. Alone.”
His emphasis on that final word stabs a bolt of pain right through my chest.
I’m trying hard not to make this about me. He’s hurt. It’s late. Something is going on, and he’s obviously upset about it. But I don’t want to leave here unless I’m certain that he’s okay. That we’re okay.
“Let me get you your meds, at least.” I reach for my purse and the white paper bag inside it. His fist slams down on the counter when he sees it, making him wince in pain so badly that he needs to grab the counter to steady himself. I try to grab for him, but he waves me off.
“Jesus Christ, Gemma.”
“Just take the pills, Dax. Why won’t you let me help you?”
Dax has always been more practical than stubborn. And with the pain lines etched into his forehead, I’m not surprised to see him reach for the pill bottle and pop two into his mouth.
“I’m going to bed,” he says again. “Please call me when you get home and let me know you made it safely.”
With that, he walks to his bedroom. A moment later, I can hear the sound of his sheets being pulled aside and him getting into bed.
I should go home. It’s clear Dax wants to be alone. I should respect his need for space. However, my irrational brain is spinning wild scenarios. What if he wakes up for a glass of water and the pain makes him swoon, and he smacks his head on the counter? Or what if he has some adverse reaction to the drugs? What if something happens to my best friend and I’m not here to help?
I grab one of his mom’s quilts from the back of his couch and settle down to make myself comfortable.
The brown fabric smells a little musty but is surprisingly comfortable as I scrunch a decorative throw pillow under my head and try to tune out the sounds of the city I’m no longer accustomed to in my scream-proof basement.
I close my eyes. My body is tired, but my brain keeps racing. What the hell is going on with Dax? The apartment. His old car. The fact that he shops at No Frills. Something has changed from my timeline to this one that has set his life off in a slightly different direction. And I have no idea what it is or how to fix it.
“Gems?” His scratchy voice has me immediately on my feet.
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing?”
There’s no point in lying now.
“I know you didn’t hit your head, but I somehow convinced myself that you would slip into a coma in the middle of the night. It makes me feel better to be here.”
There’s a long pause on his side of the conversation.
“Come sleep with me?”
I love that he asks it like a question. His voice is shaky and uncertain. Full of vulnerability. Like I wouldn’t dive under his covers at any form of an invitation just to sleep next to him.
His room is pitch-dark. I take my time peeling back the covers of his cotton bedsheets and slipping in beside him so as not to jostle the bed and cause him any more pain. His hand snakes under the blankets until it finds mine, and he laces our fingers.