Forget Me Too

Eight

Kick his ass my foot. How can I kick his ass when I can't even knock on his door?

For exactly five minutes, I remain standing in front of Caleb’s flat, unable to announce my presence. Partly because I have two huge boxes in my two not-so-big arms, but mostly because I got scared last minute.

About an hour ago, I was in fight mode. Now I'm on flight. I want to crawl back inside my room and not come out for the day.

I take a deep breath. Behind the door is the culprit of my stressful life, which will end once I return this stuff. My freshly baked plan consists of two steps. One, give these things back, and two, leave. And as a preparatory step, knock on the door.

I stretch my left foot, drawing circles in the air, then kick the door repeatedly. Both my hands are occupied, one can improvise.

One minute through kicking, the door opens forcefully.

"What is it? You're so loud," a girl who I recognize immediately, appears.

A shiny blob of pastel pink hair flips to the back of her exposed shoulder. It's Elle Donovan, a child star turned pop singer who trends almost every month on Twitter.

Shit. What is she doing here?

"Who are you?" A pair of eyes goes from my head to my feet, then back to my face again.

I can feel my cheeks heating up. Did she just size me up? No, down. She totally sized me down.

By the looks of this goddess in front of me, my number falls from seven to four. With a pair of ocean blue eyes, long lashes, magnificently cute nose, and filled lips, her makeup basically got fired. Every visually pleasing attribute of her is just her. She's a hot pot of teenage girls' insecurity.

I gulp. "Uh, is Caleb home?"

Her perfectly shaped eyebrow arches up. "That's not my question. And what do you need him for?"

My heartbeat races. I don't know what to say. I'm not expecting this at all. Who would expect this? Plain, boring life lingers in a distance, suddenly I'm in the showbiz world.

I dig deep in my brain for words. "I just--"

"Oh wait! You're the housekeeper, aren't you? Great, you're just in time." Elle Donovan claps. The suspicion seems to disappear, she pulls me inside and slams the door. I get a whiff of her sweet and fruity perfume which, in comparison to my heavy smell of turpentine and paint medium, is increasingly exquisite. Life is not fair.

"No, I... I just came by to return these." I gesture at the boxes in an attempt to explain the purpose of my visit, but she didn't hear one word.

"Enough chitchat, go make some porridge." She takes the boxes and bag, then pushes me to the kitchen.

There are so many questions I want to ask right now. Above all that, did she actually think I'm a housekeeper just because I look… well... like this? I know my fit right now is no par with her skintight jeans and ribbed top. There's no denying she's pretty, but basing my role here on my clothes? That's so offensive.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not a--"

"Vi?"

Both Elle and I pan in the direction of the voice that cut my speech. Caleb is standing by the living room, hair unruly. He switches glances between the popstar and the housekeeper, stopping at Elle. "Why are you still here?"

Holyshit. Is that s*x hair? The two of them can’t be in a relationship, right? I stare at them, eyes wide. My mouth probably hangs open as well. Are Elle and Caleb dating? Then why the hell was he after me? I have so many questions.

She walks to him and reaches out a hand, "What do you mean? I'm nursing you. Please go back to bed, I already told your housekeeper to cook some porridge." Her tone unsurprisingly rappels from a high-pitched voice to a soft, sweet one.

Caleb shoots me a confused look which I return with a shrug. His face is suddenly tense. "She's not a housekeeper, Elle."

I roll my eyes. Yeah, go tell your girlfriend that. Let this judgemental lady know the facts. I'm nowhere near a housekeeper.

Elle spins at me then eyes me sharply. If looks could kill (or eyeliners because hers are deadly sharp), I'm already a ghost now.

"Then who are you?" She bellows.

I'm about to answer but Caleb speaks before I could. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he's mad. Except why would you be angry at your girlfriend for asking the identity of the random girl who showed up unannounced?

"It's none of your business, Elle." He swats away her hand that was holding his shoulder, "Please leave."

The popstar sends a diva look in my direction then mimics the words, "Please leave."

"Not her, Elle, you. You need to leave." Caleb tugs Elle Donovan's arm, leading her to the door. Fishing a purse on the way, he passes it to her.

They argue for a moment, until he opens the way for her, practically pushing her to exit. An indignant scream echoes as the door shuts.

I'm left staring at the now empty living room. What the heck just happened? What television drama is this? Am I the medium of infidelity?

Dusting off the imaginary dirt on my shirt, I cleared my throat. "I'm leaving too. Take all this stuff you sent. Flaunting your riches won't make me want to see you again, Caleb."

His annoying ass doesn't budge, nor moves an inch, instead grins, "Yet you're here."

There goes one string off my temper.

What a cocky person. Acting like he hadn't chased Elle Donovan away a full minute ago.

Don't get me wrong, I have zero problem with him inviting another woman over. In fact, I think it's a good thing. We can pretend like the last few weeks never happened. He can bring women home as much as he wants, and I can go back to a Caleb-free life.

"I'm done here, goodbye Caleb." I walk past him to the door, but he grabs my shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I was joking." His voice is hoarse.

I slap his hand away, and believe me, even though I'm still mad, it was only a light push. Despite that, this grown man almost twice my size stumbles down, taking the coat rack with him to the floor. He grunts.

"Ugh, for crying out loud." Leaning down, I try to help his overdramatic ass off the floor. We both flinch when our skins touch.

"God, you're hot." I feel his forehead using the back of my hand and it's burning too. He has a fever.

"Thanks," he says, smiling weakly.

Even in a sick state, he still gets to be a jerk. It's probably a talent.

Tiny beads of sweat form on his forehead. This must be why he sounded hoarser than normal. Now I know Elle Donovan's reason for demanding me to cook porridge. I heave a sigh before hauling his arm over my shoulder so I can help him stand.

"Why are you so heavy?"

We struggle to his room, staggering several times before we finally reach the bed. I reposition his body so he's lying properly, then tuck him in.

"Have you taken medicine yet?"

He moves his head in a weird motion while groaning. I'll take that as a ‘no’.

The clock on his bedside table says it's already 7:30 PM.

I stare at the man lying pale on the bed, whom I assume has not eaten either. Looks like I'm going to have to cook porridge just as Elle Donovan ordered. This isn't my agenda at all.

"Just rest, okay." I stroke his hair earning a coo.

In the sink is a pot full of greenish goo which I can only assume is porridge. Elle Donovan perhaps attempted to make some, and the results weren't as satisfactory as she envisioned. Celebrities like her are probably too busy to learn basic cooking skills. B- for effort.

This is my first time making porridge for someone else. And I don't frequently cook one for myself. Only the times when I'm too weak to swallow and too sick to taste.

While it is cooking, I search for fever medicine. I found it in the bathroom, along with a thermometer.

His temperature reaches 39.3°C. I dampen a towel to dab it on his forehead so his temperature would ease a bit. He looks so vulnerable in this state, flinching at the slightest contact and groaning whenever he moves. I wonder what happened for him to get a fever this high.

"Can you get up?"

Caleb shifts a little but doesn't get up. I wrap my palms around his bicep to help him lean on the headrest.

"Come on, you need to eat."

I set up a small box I found in the kitchen as a table on one side of the bed, where the bowl of porridge is. He struggles with the spoon.

"Do you want some help?" I ask.

Watching him is a challenge. It feels like I'm the one barely scooping food from the bowl. It's so hard sitting silently on the sidelines. Besides, if I feed him, it will be easier and quicker for both of us.

"No, thank you," he says quietly.

Halfway through the porridge, Caleb gives up. He leaves the spoon on the bowl and is about to lie back down when I stop him.

"Your medicine," I hand him a capsule and a glass of water.

"Thank you."

"There's still porridge in the pot, heat it when you wake up. Here are some fever meds, you need to take one again in six hours." I remind while removing the bowl and the box so he can sleep again.

"Don't go," he holds my hand, "Please, Vi, don't leave me."

"You need to rest, okay." I remove his hand over mine, then smoothen the blanket.

"Don't leave me again, Vi. Please."

My heartbeat quickens. He has both eyes closed and is facing the opposite of my direction. I don't know if he meant what he said or it's just the fever talking, but he sounds genuinely scared.

Crap.

I was planning to go home after feeding him. How can I leave now when he's practically begging me to stay? And when he said 'again', I knew exactly what he was talking about. Guilt rushes in.

Why is he always like this? He makes it hard to function. Sense of responsibility, pity, or guilt, I'm not sure anymore. I sigh.

"I will bring this to the kitchen, then I'll back, okay?" I pat his head.

He bobs, then smiles. "Okay."

Caleb falls asleep after about an hour. The whole time he was resting, he had his eyes shut and was holding my hand. He peeks with my every move, which made it impossible for me to go. It's like nursing a real baby.

I thought when he's finally dozed off it will be my time to exit. I couldn't. Plus, my guilt wouldn't let me abandon this man. At least not until he's feeling well.

I get up, returning the swivel chair to the desk.

There is a small trash bin under it, with some crumpled paper spilling around. I shoot the papers in the bin, then take it out.

Since I'm already mistaken as a housekeeper, might as well act like one.

First to my attention is the porridge reject in the sink. It must be disposed of before it turns into a living organism and eat its way to world domination. With me as the first victim, unfortunately.

In addition to the goo of a porridge, the sink is unbelievably full (considering who the homeowner is). Could it be that he's feeling too unwell to wash the dishes? How pitiful. Then a woman showed up to add to the piling dirt in your house. How pitiful.

Personally, I have nothing against Elle Donovan. Her songs are actually pretty good, it's her reputation that is a bit... well, would make you guilty to like her songs. Last month she trended on Twitter for calling someone the f-word. Who calls people the f-word in this time and day? I mean, even British folks don't call cigarettes that. Just kidding, I don't really know that.

Elle can get tendentious at times—most of the time and Caleb, the only controversy he had was... never mind. The point is, finding her here, "nursing" him is far-fetched. There wasn't previous news about them being connected in any way. Not that I keep tabs on him or anything. Now that I think about it, if I sell this information, how much could I get? This is quick cash on the tip of my tongue.

I move out of the kitchen after scrubbing pots and dishes. Popstar porridge reject singlehandedly made my arms numb. It's amazing.

Other than the kitchen, the whole place is spotless clean. I collect the boxes I returned, placing one on the center table and the other on my lap. Now I'm already here, I might as well check the newest addition to the bombardment of gifts. I flip open the lid and the troublesome packaging cover. It takes three or four flips before a cloth-covered handbag reveals itself. The item feels cold on my fingers. It's black, with a pinkish gold chain for a strap. I don't dare look up what it's called or how much it costs. The bag goes in its box as fast as I got it out.

The Chanel box joins the Versace box on the center table. The sole reason for my visit was to bring these luxuries back to the real luxurious, except that word doesn't suit him at all. After throwing money on random stuff sent to my apartment, you would think he's living lavishly, but this place is as humble as ever. Neat but simple.

I aim for the massive shelf where vinyl records are compiled. There is a series of picture frames that I didn't pry on before. All the pictures were Thirdhand. One in a studio, one is an imitation of the popular Beatles photo and other photos, but one stands out. The biggest frame with a picture of the band and a huge crowd behind them. It's probably their first concert. Caleb is totally the type who keeps things from his firsts.

Next is a small frame, unlike the previous ones, it has paper in it instead of a photo. A ballpoint pen portrait of Caleb on a piece of lined paper. I take it off the shelf. Why did he keep this?

Why did he approach me again? Why am I still here?

When I came to this place, I was positive about removing him from the equation. Now, I'm just a confused mess. I'm deliberately pushing him away with no real reason. That wasn't even his fault, to begin with.

I brush my finger on the frame.

*

"Hey, you hungry?" Caleb looked up at me.

We're snuggled on his bed after doing you-know-what. In the few times we've hooked up, we always end up tangled with each other. I did picture him as a cuddler. It's cute and I don't mind having someone nuzzled up against me. In fact, maybe I'm into this.

I pressed my face on his head. He smelled like mint and woody aftershave.

"Why? You'll cook for me?" I joked. It hasn’t occurred to me yet that he could cook. If yes, then he'd be perfect. That's bad for me, however. It would only make it harder to not catch feelings. Not that I am. It's rhetorical. A guy who could sing, cook, smell good and, on top of that, look like a celebrity. A total killer.

Actually, he mentioned that the record deal's signing was already in process. Soon he would be an actual celebrity and, what did I know, maybe the next big thing. But right now, he's in my arms, hogging me.

"Yeah," he got up, taking me with him.

"Wait, really?"

Caleb stepped out of the bed, slipping his boxers on. I waited for him to go back and say we're ordering instead but he walked out of the room without a word.

I hurried putting on a shirt to follow him. More than hungry, I'm intrigued. Could this man actually be perfect?

"What are we having?" I asked as I entered the kitchen.

things were on the island counter. Pasta, milk, a whole broccoli head, cheese, spices, and utensils. Caleb appeared from the fridge to add a plastic container of what seemed like chicken to the collection.

I watched him navigate in the kitchen, trying my best not to laugh until I couldn't hold it anymore. "Nice fit, very stylish."

He stopped cutting broccoli florets to look down at what he was wearing—a gradient orange to purple apron and boxer shorts. If the attire had an influence on the quality of food, he's either winning or failing, nothing in between.

I put my cheek on a hand and followed whatever he was doing with my eyes. The view was amazing. Who would have thought watching a man shred chicken was this entertaining?

Somewhere in the process, he started humming. It wasn't just my eyes that were fed, my ears too, and soon my belly. I did my best not to comment about him looking so domestic. He appeared to be enjoying it. Of course, I would give him the moment. I was enjoying it on my end anyway. I might be reveling from it more than he was.

About half an hour had passed when Caleb served a bowl of pasta. It smelled heavy of cheese and comfort.

"Careful, it's hot," he warned.

I didn't care, my fork pierced the rotini with no mercy, popping it in my mouth. A myriad of flavors I wasn't expecting was in every bite. "Holy s**t, dude, this is amazing."

Relieved, Caleb welcomed me when I looked at him. "You like it?"

"No, dude, I love it. What type of potion did you put in this?"

"Not much really. I haven't gone to the store, so I whipped up whatever's left." He got a serving for him.

My eyebrow raised. This... This immaculate tasting dish was a product of "whipped up whatever's left"? What more if he had a complete set of ingredients? When I run out of groceries, I usually cook instant ramen noodles.

"Seriously, this is amazing." I filled my mouth with more pasta.

"I'm such a treat, aren't I?" He smirked, eating some of his cooking himself.

"You mean a 'threat'? You dropped your 'h' there, sir."

He laughed. The guy didn't have to know I meant it.

Not only could he cook, but he cooked well. No matter how pleasing this might seem, in my position at the moment, it could not end well. No one had ever offered to cook for me. Who wouldn't want a man who would make you food after screwing you good? That's two turn-ons in one sentence. And that's bad for my well-being. If we were dating, then it was a different story, but with our relationship (whatever it was), this type of treatment was a no-no. Again, this wasn't the sequence I preferred.

I reserved the thought for later and relished the meal I was having.

"It feels wrong having this for free," I said while chewing. What did I do to deserve this type of treatment? Maybe I died as a soldier in my past life.

He grinned, "I charge high."

"Sure, name your price."

"Hmm, well, I cooked for you, do something for me too."

The suggestion seemed fair except in my case here, the course of the conversation gave me uncertainty. He couldn't be thinking anything remotely inappropriate, right? I mean when someone asks you to do something for them, and that someone being... I didn't know, whatever he was to me, then--

"Oh, no, babe, nothing sexual." He smirked in an attempt to play it casually, but his ears were tomato red.

I masked laughter over my embarrassment. "I wasn't thinking sexual."

I was totally thinking s****l. s**t. What have I become?

On that note, what should I do for him?

"The dishes?" Wasn't that the norm?

"No, I won't let a guest clean. Something else."

Something else other than doing the dishes for the guy who cooked for me. I'm only good at one thing.

Once we were finished, Caleb collected the dishes, firmly stating he would do the cleaning on his own. Not a problem for me because I have an agenda myself.

"Do you have a paper?"

He glanced back from the sink, "I have a notebook in the room."

"Cool." I jump out of the chair to head for his bedroom.

I rarely draw people—especially people I know personally. My line of expertise revolved around the skies, trees, water, and the likes. In other words, landscapes. But that doesn't mean I haven't tried. I'm fairly good at it. Back in high school, I used to take commissions, drawing celebrities with whoever wanted to be drawn with them. Greg had a portrait of him and Brad Pitt together.

My prices were high school rates, but trust me, this was a fair trade.

The notebook on the desk was next to a pen holder with only a ballpoint pen in it. Preferably, a pencil would be better, but this could do the job too. I flip through the pages filled with scribbled words. If I didn't know the owner, I would have thought those were poems.

Back in the kitchen, Caleb have not finished cleaning up yet. I didn't bother him and started my own scribbling on his notebook.

Normally, you would need the person to stay in one position, but my brain already associated the man with the word 'perfect' so whenever I think of that word, his face pops up.

I positioned myself where I could see his profile. Staring for a few minutes was required for this and I was very much pleased. I started with the shape of a head, then the eyes. His were thin, almond-shaped and the irises were an ombre of various brown shades. The nose was a combination of a snub and a straight shape. Every angle and curve on his face fitted perfectly. And his lips, god his lips.

"What is it?"

My heart hopped in surprise. I must have been staring for so long that he noticed.

"Nothing," I averted my gaze. My face immediately heated up, it's like I got caught fantasizing over him.

“What is it?" He repeated in a sing-song voice. I gave in.

"I want to kiss you."

To my surprise, he put down the dishrag and walked to where I was. He trapped me between him and the table, leaning down. I closed my eyes.