ISLA~
I woke up with a headache and a swollen wrist. I sat up slowly with a yawn and regretted it immediately.
Heaven knows I wouldn't have ridden that bike, at least not yesterday. Everything ached, from the vibration of it, my grip on the throttle. Fuck.
After brushing, I walked out to make coffee and the scent of burnt food hit my nostrils. I rushed into the kitchen to see Elara, fully focused on whatever crime she was committing in the pan while practically coughing.
I tried to avoid her, but that would seem... Seem what?
"Trying to burn the house down?" I aksed discarding my thoughts.
She startled slightly "Actually, I'm trying to put together something edible" she cleared her throat.
"My stomach does not like the sound of that" I chuckled. Shut up Isla, do not talk to her like everything's fine.
She heaved a sigh "I was attempting pancakes. Who knew they were this difficult to fry?"
"I don't even bother trying"
"And here I thought you were about to tell me how good you were at cooking" she looked at me, then coughed again, harder this time.
This felt almost normal until she held my gaze and suddenly this didn't feel professional anymore.
I never once spoke to my clients like this. I needed to get out of this conversation and fast. I couldn't also shake the fact about what I had done yesterday.
"How's your head?" She asked throwing me off.
"Much better" I replied. That was a lie.
"Guessing the injury was small, then?"
"I wish" The incident played in my head all over again. "Eight stitches were needed". I added.
She turned fully this time, her brow furrowed in disbelief "Eight? And you're telling me you're fine"
"I really am. You should focus on your food, its really not that big" Another lie.
I walked to the coffee maker and poured myself a cup. She coughed again and it began to bother me.
"You good?" I asked.
"Yeah" she answered waving her hand in the air "Just the smoke"
She took in a deep breath then coughed again. It almost felt like she was trying not to draw attention to it.
"Quick question"
"What is it?"
"You were able to make a call yesterday. I can't even access the freaking network."
I didn't look at her "Like you said. Network" I'd been caught but there's no way I was admitting there was a signal jammer in this house.
She turned off the cooker and stepped away from it. She reached for the sink and I noticed a slight hitch in her inhale.
"Ms. Jones." I lowered my coffee
"I'm fine" she said quickly.
"Where's your inhaler?" she didn't answer.
"Ms. Jones?"
"It's upstairs" she muttered, trying to clear her throat "I don't… I don't need it" she brushed past me. okay now she was beginning to annoy me with that attitude of hers.
I found her seating on the dining table, clearly struggling to catch her breath. I stepped closer without thinking.
"Ms. Jones, don't be stubborn" she shut her eyes tight for a few seconds then looked at me.
"I hate…" she paused, holding my gaze. She looked away first "how that thing makes me shaky" she got up "I'm fine" she turned to leave.
"I'll be leaving soon." I added.
She nodded and went up to her room. The door slammed shut and the sound echoed through the house. Was it just me, or did she sound pissed? Cause the echo of the door slamming felt like a physical slap.
I stood there, the bitter taste of the coffee suddenly like ash in my mouth, i had forgotten to add milk.
I looked up the stairs, clearly she was pissed. And she had every right to be. and now I was gaslighting her about the network signal while she was literally struggling to breathe.
I'm not a good person, Ms. Jones. I'd said it to her on that hill yesterday, and I was proving it now. So why did it feel,... wrong.
I walked back into the kitchen, eyes fixated on the charred mess in the pan. The "crime scene" she'd left behind.
I dumped my coffee in the sink. My head throbbed, a constant reminder of the eight stitches hidden under my hair, but it was the hitch in her breath that was really bothering me.
I walked toward the stairs, I should just leave. I should go to the office, meet the lawyers, and pretend I didn't see the way her eyes lingered on my lips before she turned away.
I stopped outside her door. Contemplating if to just walk in, knock or leave.
She was being stubborn. I knew that 'I'm fine' tone. My sister used it alot while growing up. It was the sound of someone who was terrified of being a burden.
I didn't knock. I pushed the door open just an inch.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to me, her shoulders hunched. She was trying to breathe silently, a desperate, controlled effort that made her look stupid.
The inhaler was sitting on the nightstand, two feet away and she wasn't reaching for it.
"Did you know?". She flinched, surely not expecting me to follow her.
"Globally, it is estimated that approximately 1,200 people die from asthma every day. This is based on over 440,000 deaths annually." I said softly, leaning against the doorframe.
She didn't look back. "I thought you were leaving."
"I am. As soon as I see you use that."
"Why do you care?" she snapped, finally turning her head. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with the frustration of the morning. "You're just the manager, right? The 'Fixer.' My health isn't a PR crisis yet."
I walked into the room, ignoring the alarm bells in my head telling me to stay behind the line. I picked up the inhaler and held it out to her.
"It becomes a PR crisis if my client drops dead while in my care," I said, my voice dropping. "Take it. Now."
She stared at the inhaler, then at my hand. For a second, I thought she was going to slap it away, maybe she should have. Instead, she reached out, her fingers brushing against mine as she took it. Her hand was already shaking.
She took the puff, her eyes never leaving mine.
"There," she wheezed after a moment, "Taken, are you satisfied? Happy knowing I won't die on your watch?"
"Thrilled," I answered sarcastically.
I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me at the threshold.
"Isla?"
I didn't turn around. I couldn't. "Yeah?"
"The drawing you burned... Why did you draw it?"
I closed my eyes, the headache behind them spiking. I thought about the hours I'd spent capturing the exact way the light hit her hair, her even. I thought about the soul I'd tried to hide in those margins.
"I hated that I drew it," I said.
I walked out before she could ask anything else. I didn't even know why I had drawn it. Same with why I burned it. All I knew was that every time I looked at her, the "Fixer" felt like she was losing the war.