I clicked through the Apple TV and pulled up where I’d left off on season one of Outlander.
It was an unusual choice for me, being it was a far cry from my typical indulgence into the world of gore and suspense, but it had become somewhat of a guilty pleasure of mine in these last months nonetheless.
I was drawn to the way Claire felt tethered to more than one man. I was allured by the way each held such a vastly different future. I was exceptionally fond of the grace in which she handled her confusion, and the boldness in which she conducted herself. In short, I’d come to adore her and envy her all the same. She had boundaries I lacked.
There wasn’t two hundred years in the Scottish highlands preventing me from making a decision, just the eighteen inches from my head to my heart.
I pulled the hood of my grey sweater over my unwashed hair and lay back down.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I hadn’t ordered any delivery today, so there was no reason to answer.
I ignored it.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“Go away!” I yelled down the hallway at whoever had the audacity to intrude on my misfortune, this week of all weeks.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Whoever it was pounded on my door so hard it rattled on its hinges.
“I said go away!” My temper had started to flare as my shout morphed into a scream of sorts.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“Heads are going to roll,” I muttered to myself, as I threw back the blanket and climbed off the couch.
My black sweatpants that were too big pooled around my bare feet as I stalked towards the door.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
“For the love of all that is holy!” I hollered threw the copper.
Throwing the deadbolt back, I yanked my front door open, prepared to verbally eviscerate whoever was on the other side.
“Jesus Christ,” I growled. “Of course it’s you. Why wouldn’t it be you?” I said sarcastically.
He looked over my head into the apartment, searching, but when he came up empty-handed, he turned his sights back to me. “Shouldn’t give your access code to strangers then, babe.”
I banged my head against the door dramatically. “Go away, Maverick.”
I started to shut the door, but he slammed his boot into the doorway.
“You look like shit.” He shook his head and pushed his way past me into the apartment.
Turning to look at him crowding my entryway, I rolled my eyes. “Gee, thanks.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded.
That was Maverick.
I hadn’t heard from him in weeks, and yet, he stood, arms crossed over his chest in my hallway like he belonged there.
“I’m sick,” I lied, motioning with my arm for him to leave.
He glared.
In two strides, he closed the distance between us, and my pulse raced.
He smiled.
Then he reached over my head and slammed the door shut behind me.
“Not leavin’,” he stated, like it was the end all, be all of statements.
Then he left me growling in my entryway, looking like a slob, as he walked into my living room.
I stared after him.
“It looks like a bomb dropped in here.”
Rolling my eyes, I stomped down the hall to see him staring at my coffee table like it was on fire.
“You don’t like it?” I huffed. “You know where the door is. I didn’t invite you in.”
He shook his head.
“That’s seriously gross, babe.”
I followed his eyesight.
My coffee table was piled high with takeout containers, tissues from my sobbing, probably an entire case of empty Diet Coke cans, and at least one 7-Eleven’s worth of candy wrappers.
It wasn’t that bad.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, fed up and ready for him to go so I could get back to succumbing to my misery.
He walked into the kitchen and bent his hulking frame over as he started to rummage through cupboards.
“I called your office,” he said from under my sink. “That guy said you’d taken the week off.”
I could here the sounds of things being moved around.
“So?” I spat half-heartedly. I was distracted by his odd behaviour. “What the hell are you doing in my kitchen?”
“I’m looking for garbage bags.”
My already barely there patience was running thinner by each passing second.
“Maverick, what are you—”
I was cut off when he stood up. “Found one.”
Then he moved from my kitchen back into the living room, making the vaulted ceilings seem shorter.
I waited for him to answer me.
He didn’t. He just started to pick up things and throw them in the trash.
The thin line holding my temper in check snapped.
“Maverick!” I screamed, smacking the bag out of his hands. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He glared at me.
“He said you were sick.” His voice was low, and the flame in my chest flickered when he spoke. “I called, you didn’t answer. I was worried about you.”
“Bullshit.” I rolled my eyes.
He prowled towards me; standing so close, I had to look up just to see him.
“You don’t look sick.” He assessed me. “But you do look like shit.”
I scoffed. “My ego thanks you.”