Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)(75)

And I wanted to hug that Matt Simmons. I wanted to hug all his hurts away.

Matt had dawdled during lunch, accepting my affection cheerfully, and ordering more and more food. Finally, when I'd threatened to leave without him, he paid the check and dragged his feet, walking with the adroit liveliness of a one-hundred-ten-year-old.

My residual feelings of sympathy for my friend began to wear thin as soon as Roger's building came into sight.

Roger being the professional dry humper.

"Matt. I didn't invite you along. You don't need to be here." We caught the door of the building, entering just as someone was exiting and negating the need to buzz Roger's apartment. "If this freaks you out so much, go to the Met and grab a coffee. I'll come find you after."

"No. I'll be moral support." His hand was once again on the small of my back and, though he was walking next to me, it felt like he was hovering.

"Just as long as you're not the morality police." I gave him a stern look.

"Think of me as your bodyguard." He swallowed with effort, looking incredibly tense. "If at any point you feel uncomfortable, just say Turing test, and I'll beat the shit out of him."

We stopped at Roger's door and I turned to face Matt; he wouldn't look at me, giving me only his profile. "If you're going to be throwing all this testosterone around in there, you can't come in."

He made a scoffing sound, but I saw the muscle jump at his jaw, like he was grinding his teeth. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?"

"No," he said stubbornly, the single word deep and foreboding.

Studying him for a moment, I shook my head and sighed. Again. Deciding that short of asking him to leave, there was nothing I could do about his mood. And if I asked him to leave, I got the sense that we'd end up arguing. And I really didn't want to argue in the hallway outside the dry humper's apartment where I was supposed to have been ten minutes ago.

So I knocked.

Matt flinched at the sound, saying nothing.

We waited.

Nothing happened.

I knocked again.

Eventually, I heard a shuffling sound coming from the apartment. I saw that Matt's hands were curled into fists.

Then the door opened and a sick man was revealed. A very, very sick man.

"Can I help you?" he groaned, leaning against the door, looking like death. 

Both Matt and I frowned at him, then at each other.

"Uh, Roger?" I asked.

"Yes?" he croaked, his eyes barely open. He was dressed in a bathrobe, flannel pajama pants, and a white T-shirt. And he was shivering.

"I'm Marie, from the-"

"Oh no! I'm so sorry. I didn't call you to cancel." He coughed, and then groaned. "As you can see, I have the flu."

"Yes, I can see that." I winced on his behalf. Truly, he looked like he was ready to pass out and his breathing was labored. "Are you okay?"

"Thank God," Matt muttered next to me and I could physically feel the waves of relief coming off him as he leaned against the doorjamb, apparently unable to support his own weight under the burden of this reprieve.

I had to fight my urge to glare daggers at him. Stupid dehydrated horse.

"I'm so terribly sorry," Roger croaked. "You flew all the way out here. I'm so, so sorry." He clutched his forehead, looking dismayed.

"No, no. Don't worry about-" My nurturing instincts kicked in and I glanced over Roger's shoulder to his apartment beyond. "Do you have anyone to help you? Are you by yourself?"

"My boyfriend and I split up last month; he moved out." Roger coughed, weaving a little on his feet. "I'm by myself, but I'll be fine." He only had one eye open, like using both required too much energy.

Matt and I shared another look and I could see that he was just as concerned as I was.

"Let me at least get you some soup," I offered.

Roger shook his head again, his pallor decidedly green, his eyes half blinking.

Before I could think better of it, I turned to Matt. "We can't leave him. Please. Help him. Let him lean on you. Take him to the couch."

Matt nodded at once and jumped into action, immediately stepping forward and encouraging the sick man to use him as a crutch.

Roger made a motion as though to wave us off, but clearly he lacked the physical energy-or mental focus-to do so. As Matt took Roger to the sofa, I crossed to the kitchen and began searching for tea, honey, and lemon.

What are you doing? I asked myself as I rifled through Roger's kitchen, this stranger's kitchen.

What was I doing?

I only felt a moment's worth of hesitation before I committed fully to helping this man.

Helping someone in need. That's what.

I didn't know him. But ostensibly, he was completely alone and terribly ill. And that was unacceptable.