THE CHECKUP

THE CHECKUP


Angel's Pov

I think I just found my new favourite song.

We're in the car, having just pulled out of the hospital premises. The checkup wasn't too bad although they did pierce me to take blood. Twice. The routine exam on my lady bits was also not fun but the doctors were very nice.

Maybe it was because of Hank telling them to be ‘extra special with his girl.’ Then he walked off grinning, pleased with himself.

I suppressed the noise that wanted to come out of me with all my might. I wasn't even sure what it would sound like. Because the embarrassment that flooded my body, swiftly combatted with an equal amount of adoration was monumental. I think I had a blush on my face for the first hour as the nurses whispered to themselves, smiling anytime they looked at me.

Anyway, Hank is talking about music and he’s put the radio on, while telling me about the artists he likes. I listen. I've found out that Hank can be very passionate about the randomest things and it’s so cute.

And then the song in question starts playing. I'm sure I've heard before music ever since waking up but this is the first time I’ve actually been inclined to listen.

“What's the name of this song?”

“Oh?” Hank stops bobbing his head along to think. “Eating the wind,” he says, a moment later.

“Eating the wind,” I say, relegating it to memory. “I like it.”

Hank beams as if I've made an important discovery. “You do?” He asks, glancing at me before looking back at the road. I nod and he must see that out of his peripheral because he says, “Add it to your playlists.”

Before I can say anything, he adds, “Oh and I can send you my favourite playlists too, so you can see if you like something in there.”

He glances at my face again and backtracks. “Uh, or not. It's cool. If we have different music tastes we can put each other on.”

That's not what I meant. I can deduce what a playlist might be but I don't know where I can get them. “No, that's nice! It's just that I don't have playlists.”

“Ohhhh,” he says, and the soft laugh that escapes him seems to be directed at himself. “I'll come in then, make you one before I leave.”

I like that Hank remembers what's wrong with me without me having to spell it out and then he doesn't make it such a big deal. When I'm with him, having no memories feels like the mole on my face; a small thing I was born with.

“Mr Hills will probably be at work right?”

That's when I remember that I haven't told my ride! “That reminds me! Please drop me off at my apartment instead.”

“You don't want to go to Mr Hills’ today?” he asks, and I can't be sure but I think I hear an undertone of glee.

“Nope. I've got something waiting at home. Besides, Ceceila's coming.”

Hank groans dramatically. “The hairdresser?”

“Yeah.”

“When? So I can be gone before then?”

“This evening,” I laugh. “Bit don't worry, she really doesn't hate you.”

“If feels like she does,” he whines. Smiling, I reach over to pat him. But because I don't want to disturb him when he's driving, I put my hand on his thigh instead of his shoulder.

I feel his whole body jolt and I blink up at him. To his credit, he doesn't look away from the road even if his eyes have gone enormous. “Sorry, I was trying to reassure you, not startle you.”

“It's—” he clears his throat loudly. “It's fine. . . She doesn't hate me. I get it.”

I'm not sure what's going on with Hank but I'm amused. “That's right,” I say, patting his thigh. “Wait no the song’s over. Put it back.”

“You can play it on my phone,” he says jerking his chin to the phone beside him. He tells me the password is his favorite fruit, grape and for the rest of the drive, I play my new favourite song. I wonder if it annoys him at some point but he doesn't complain.

We pull up into my building and I step out, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Come on Hank, let's go.”

He chuckles, as he locks up and gets his thick glasses to rest them on his face. “I'm coming, I'm coming.”

I wait for him to walk up to me before I flounce in. Hank follows, smiling at me. In the elevator, I check my phone again. There have been no more texts from Andrew all morning, and it's almost twelve.

I walk out of the elevator, only barely stopping myself from bolting to my door. When I get there I pause. There's nothing in front of it, looking around the small hallway.

Maybe it's not here yet, I think as I get my key out of my pocket and insert it into the lock. Pushing the door open a small speck of yellow catches my eye on the floor but before I can ruminate on it, I'm staring into my apartment.

“Oh!”

The gasp falls out of me unconsciously. There, in the middle of my empty apartment, a huge bunch of sunflowers in the prettiest pink vase. I dash up to it to see that there's a note sticking out in between two flowers.

I pluck it out and open it. ‘For doing so well today, Angel Honey.’ It's signed with a big, scrawling A as if I wouldn't know who it's from.

Hank shuts the door and walks up to me to peek over my shoulder. “They're pretty.”

“Right? They're from Andrew!”

“Yeah,” he mutters, staring at the flowers intently. “They need water or they'll die.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. . . I'll do it.” Hank lifts the vase and takes it to the kitchen sink, holding it underneath the tap like a disgruntled parent waiting to take their child to school.

Immediately he turns on the wat
er, there's a firm knock on my door.

That's it, one knock. I freeze.

Who's that?