Honey and Spice | ✔️

Chapter 25

Ryder

“Come on, just pick a house already!” I complain to no one in particular.

I like watching house hunting shows because it’s cool seeing how other houses look. But people can be really picky and it’s annoying me. I’m fine with any house they show - it’s good enough for my broke ass - unless the toilet’s really badly done or the rooms are weirdly shaped. I guess everyone can understand that, right?

But anyway, I love roasting these houses - my favourite insults are “The walls look like the aftereffect of explosive diarrhoea” and “Who the fuck actually carpets kitchens?” - but I say that to my empty home so no one else hears my absolutely hilarious comments.

As the next episode of House Hunters International starts playing, a loud thud interrupts my evening and I jump out of my skin. It sounds like right outside my door. I mute the TV and stand up slowly. Then, someone starts knocking at my door - loud and persistent. I gingerly walk to my door. Is this some kind of a joke? Or is this a burglary? But I don’t think anyone’s lame enough to knock before robbing. (“Hello, thanks for opening the door, I’ll just take your stuff and leave?")

Then, I hear heavy breathing and someone calling out, “Ry - ” The person coughs. “Please . . . open . . . door.”

There's something familiar about the voice, though raspy. I open the door and I’m greeted by a very drenched and wheezing Nathan.

“Nathan?” I say, perplexed. What’s he doing here? At 8:53 pm? And especially wet?

He lifts his head weakly at me. Then, his eyes roll back and his whole body slacks, falling to the ground. Again, I catch him before he hits the floor (this time I’m glad for my reflex).

“Nate?” I try again, my hand on his face. No response. His head lolls off to the side. He’s actually unconscious. It takes a moment for me to process this. And when I do, I leave his soiled shoes by the door and carry him to my sofa.

I lay him down slowly on it, trying my best not to accidentally drop him. When he’s down, his head falls abruptly to the side again and I almost shriek. Oh god, why am I so spooked by an unconscious person? I thought his head was going to fall off.

His glasses are so spotted with raindrops, I’m surprised how he was able to see through them. So I take them out, wipe them with the hem of my shirt and awkwardly put them back on his face.

Nathan’s slightly shivering, and his face is as cold as a raw New York strip. Oh fuck. What do I do? I have absolutely zero knowledge about first-aid (I should have listened to Aunt Mars when she was teaching me some basic stuff). God, I’m panicking. Is he dead? I hesitantly place two fingers on the side of his cold neck. Okay, I feel a pulse, though faint, so he’s alive.

Then, I try to rub some warmth into his hands; but my hands are equally as cold and they’re shaking so much, so I give up. Shit, shit, shit. I stand and nervously run a hand through my hair when my conscience speaks up: Look, he’s cold, so just put a fucking blanket over him and wait for him to wake up.

As much as I hate you, conscience, you’re right. I guess.

So I take the thickest blanket I can find and tuck him in on my sofa. Both my blanket and sofa are going to be wet too but I don't care. All that matters is that Nathan doesn’t die on me. God, I need to stop thinking that he’ll die and calm down. He isn’t going to die, he just fainted, okay? Shut up!

I start counting the seconds, watching the clock in my living room studiously. 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24. . .

Once I’ve completed a full minute, I start counting again. And again. And again. I slowly and carefully sit on one end of my sofa. Nathan’s looking better now, less frightening than how he did when he showed up unannounced. The only movement from him is the slight rise and fall of his chest.