Dear Rita. Simona Taylor

“Drop what?”

      “The I’ve-got-a-headache act. I know neither of us was having a great time back there, and you did manage to get us out of it without hurting anyone’s feelings, but really, you don’t need to go on for my sake. I understand. We didn’t hit it off. No hard feelings.”

      Then he noticed something he hadn’t before: a glimmer of moisture in her eyes. “Are you crying?”

      “Not exactly,” she answered sharply.

      “What the—why?”

      “Nothing. It’s not an act.”

      “What?”

      “My headache. It’s not an act. I get these migraines sometimes, and this one’s…pretty bad. I feel like I’ve been stabbed in the head. And the nausea…it’s awful…”

      He felt like a genuine heel. He’d all but accused her of lying, when, if he’d taken the time to really look at her, he’d have seen that she was in real pain. “If you feel like you need to throw up, let me know. I’ll pull over.”

      “Don’t worry. I won’t throw up all over your precious Weekend Warrior Mobile.”

      “That’s not what I meant at all!”

      She covered her face with her hands and slumped forward in her seat. “Fine, whatever you say.”

      Still ashamed of himself, he fiddled with the stereo. “Anything you’d like to listen to?”

      “Silence would be great,” she told him from between cupped hands.

      He snapped the stereo back off again. “You got it.”

      Silence was just what he gave her, all the way to her apartment. He liked this part of town. It was old-fashioned and nostalgic without being run-down. It reminded him of the neighborhood he’d grown up in. He pulled up before her building, squinted at the brass plate fixed to the wall to ensure he had the right place, and alighted before she could bestir herself and try to get out without his help.

      They stood on the sidewalk, solemnly regarding each other. “Got your keys?” he asked her.

      She looked perplexed for a moment, as though seeing him through a blur of pain, and then rummaged in her purse. “Yes, got them.” She held them up, jangling them as proof. Then she turned toward the stairs. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

      She wasn’t getting away that easy. He fell into step with her, locking his car and shoving the keys into his pocket. “I’m walking you inside.”

      “You don’t have to,” she began hastily.

      “Oh, yes I do. You’re not feeling well. I’m not driving off and leaving you until I know you’re safely inside.”

      “I don’t need—” she began, a spark of indignation rising out of the mist of her pain, but just then she stumbled, and he caught her deftly and righted her.

      “See? You can’t even make it to your own door.” He took her hand, which was limp, clammy and unresisting, in his. “Come.”

      “But, Dorian…!”

      Her protest was half-hearted, and he ran over it effortlessly. “But, nothing. A promise is a promise. I’m seeing you inside.” She gave no further resistance, so he unlocked the door to the main entrance and led her to the elevator. “Floor?”

      “Third.”

      He punched in the number. Once on the third floor, he looked around. There were just four apartments on each floor, and she wearily pointed out her own. By now, pity was consuming him, and he wanted urgently to get her inside so that she could rest. He selected the key that looked like it would fit the lock to her front door and began to insert it into the keyhole…

      But the door yawned open before them without any further bidding.