Hate Is A Strong Word

28.

I hear a knock on the door. Gentle, just a light one, probably the person thinks I'm asleep. But I know very well who it is. It will be my brother, who comes to me every day while I'm lying at home with some kind of intestinal flu and fever, and keeps pestering me.

I'm fine today, no fever and I'm not even throwing up. Now I just have to suck it up because I want to be healthy as soon as possible, even if I don't go to school next week. But in the back of my mind I have this stupid feeling that something is going to happen and I'm not going to like it. I haven't thrown up since Sunday, but it was pouring out of me every hour over the weekend. My fevers stopped on Monday, but I still don't feel great or healthy.

Plus, Juraj kept coming to see me and he had a cold and didn't go to daycare. He was bored because his dad was home with us, but he had to get things done for work, so he kept coming over to talk to me. Dad always had to pull him away because you don't want a six-year-old at home who's going to be throwing up from morning till night.

I've heard so many things about hockey in those days, you can't imagine. It was always just the NHL, juniors, Simon and Sebastian. That's what he talked about the most. He went to Prague with Elis to meet him at the airport, but I don't know anything else. After I totally threw up and sent him the message, we didn't keep in touch. I was dying, he was doing interviews, and he and his team were going around to all the interviews and TV stations. But I was watching everything.

But now they're all back at their clubs in every possible league in the world, continuing to fight for places in the tables and promotion to the playoffs. We just haven't spoken, not one message or call. I would have even called him, but I thought my last hour would be up any minute. I practically just slept the last few days.

"Juraj, I'm not talking to you about hockey." I say annoyed because I just had a quiet moment. Grease is on the TV and I'm fascinated again by how handsome Travolta was when he was young. Grease never gets old, you can see it a thousand times and it will still be amazing.

"I don't want to talk about hockey." A blonde head peeks in the door and I pause the movie. Sebastian. He's here. Alive, well, happy and, most importantly, in one piece. He climbs in and closes the door behind him. I look at him and I can't believe he's really here. He's standing there in front of me in all his glory. Canada did him good.

His hair is longer than when he left and it falls into his eyes more than normal. What would he look like if he cut his hair? I don't know, I like his waves. He's got a smile on his lips, his eyes shine. He's all aglow. He's so changed. In a good way, of course. It must have given him confidence and determination, now he's gonna be the MVP of their entire junior league again.

He's wearing black jeans, which suit him and are looser. He's got a green sweatshirt over his torso and white socks on his feet. I appreciate Sebastian's style. He would never wear skinny jeans or any other similarly awful piece of clothing. We look at each other, and now there is only him and I.

I've suppressed all the other things that are going on around me. I don't notice anything except Sebastian. His eyes are also pinned on my disease-weary body, and my face, which has popped a few pimples. Suddenly I feel better because I can see him. Everything is as it was before. The two of us, one room, two pairs of eyes that want to see into each other's souls and lips that are unable to make a single sound.

I start to pull myself up into a sitting position so I can see him better and, if possible, hug him if he takes those few steps and follows me. "Lie, Tina." He climbs off of him and is already following me to the bed, sitting down next to me, but I stay seated anyway. He's clutching something in his hand and his cell phone looms in his pocket. In that same hand he's holding a bag of some sort.