The first time you told me you loved me, I thought it was a mistake. It seemed like a knee-jerk reaction, you kissed me good night and it seemed to slip out. We both paused at my front door, you looked almost scared, but I let it slide, waving a bit awkwardly. Giving you an out. You ducked away down the hall and I let my door close behind you. I couldn't stop myself, I cried behind that door for at least an hour. You still couldn't let yourself love me.
.
.
.
For a few days after our fight, I gave you your space, my own attitude fluctuating between telling myself I didn't care what happened to you since you obviously didn't want me to care, and being so worried I couldn't focus, dialing your number, just to cancel the call; typing up a text only to delete it. I finally made myself call three days after you left,
"Listen, babe, I know I pushed too hard. I'm really sorry, I'm just worried about you."
Then, again, the next day,
"Babe, I need to know that you're okay. Call me back."
Two days after that I still hadn't heard from you, so I texted,
'Seriously. If you're not wanting to talk with me, just send me a text, cuss me out, send a pic of you flipping me off. Anything. Just let me know you're okay.'
I didn't know how else to get a hold of you except meeting up with you at your job, so I headed to the shop after a week and a half of radio silence.
I had no idea what I was stepping into that day, I just knew it was the last place I could check.
"Hey, Pauley," I greeted your assistant manager, "Is-"
"Hey Handsome!" he all but squeals, running around the counter to hug me. When I first started coming to this deli he was the first to flirt shamelessly with me, and flattering as it was, I don't think I could handle him. He had a tendency to be more... enthusiastic than some of my most devoted fans, "What are you doing here?" he never releases me, "I was sure you had lost interest in us for good! Have you finally realized your mistake? Or are you actually here to pick up lunch for your little love bug?" I chuckle at his dramatics, and his nick name for you, but my half-hearted smile falls quickly,
"I'm actually looking for her, we had... we had a bit of an argument a little over a week ago and I haven't been able to get a hold of her since."
"Ah, well she's not here, hasn't been all week. Out sick, actually." He finally lets me go, headed back to his station behind the counter, "But she should be coming back in the next day or so. Usually how long it lasts. Should still be at Dana's." I freeze, and I'm sure the color has drained from my face,
"Who's Dana?" I want to kick myself now for not knowing why he looked at me so funny, but at the time, the name did nothing for my ridiculous scenarios explaining your need for secrecy,
"Uh... that's funny..." he chuckles, confused, "She's not coming back for a few days at least, you should know by now that she never feels up to working after all that junk..." he seems to catch onto my blank look, "unless you didn't know-"
"What junk?" His face goes completely white, like he'd just spilled a secret,
"Um... Why do I get the feeling she's gonna kill me when she gets back?"
"Where does Dana live?" I demand, trying not to make a scene for the half dozen customers who haven't paid us much attention so far, but I'm getting more frustrated by the second. He shakes his head a little bit, looking sad all of a sudden,
"Dana-Farber... 450 Brookline Ave, cab would probably be quickest... just... don't let her kill me. If she didn't tell you, I had no right. I just thought-you've just been together so long... I figured you would have to know by now..."
"Yeah, that's kinda what this whole thing is about." I thank him, absentmindedly, rushing out the door. That side of Brookline wasn't a residential area, but I can't remember what is there besides offices and...
"Oh no."
I hail a cab, spitting out the address and urging him to get across town as soon as he could. I bounced my leg the whole ride, chewing my nails, trying to convince myself that it wasn't as bad as I was thinking. Pauley wasn't upset, and he's an open book, so it can't be that bad, right? For all I know, this is just an appointment and there is nothing to worry about anyway. Finally, the cab pulls up in front of the hospital, and I climb out, nearly forgetting to pay the driver, and double checking the address, just to be sure. I look up, my heart jumping to my throat as I read 'Dana-Farber Cancer Institute.'
