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Caught staring, my gaze jerks to hers, and I clear my throat. “Um, I’ll, uh . . .” I point to the ground as my mouth goes dry. “I’ll just wait here while you get dressed.”
She passes me with little more than a smirk, which is how I know she must really feel like garbage. In her absence, I closemy eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to calm the fuck down.
When the door creaks open a minute later, I take it as an invitation to check on her, but I don’t trust myself not to make a fool of myself, considering all the blood in my body has rushed south and has yet to leave its post.
Instead, I head for the front door and swipe my keys off the hook as I call out, “I’m headed to the store. I’ll be back.”
After I unload everything I’ve purchased, I take the carton of chicken noodle soup and pour Brynn a bowl of it. I bought the kind you find with the prepared foods, not the canned stuff, which tastes like crap. Fat noodles, huge chunks of chicken, and carrots swim in the golden broth as I pop it in the microwave. While it heats, I fill a glass with orange juice, and search the kitchen for something I can use as a makeshift tray. Finding a cookie sheet, I shrug and place her drink on it, along with some crackers and a spoon. The lozenges I bought follow, and once the microwave beeps, I add the bowl of soup and slip the thermometer in my pocket.
I carry everything to my bedroom, taking care to be as quiet as possible as I sit the tray on my nightstand next to where she’s curled up into a ball, her face slack with sleep, mouth slightly parted.
The sight of her pinches at my chest. This version of Brynn, the one that’s sick and vulnerable, is so different from the fiery, take-no-prisoners girl I know. It makes me wonder how many other versions of her I’ve yet to discover, and if I’ll be lucky enough to get the chance.
I sink down on the edge of the bed, gently brushing a lock of hair from her face, glad to see her skin has cooled some. She’sno longer sweating, but her cheeks are still slightly flushed, and after a couple minutes, she stirs and blinks at me. “Hey,” she says, pushing herself up into a seated position. “What time is it?”
“A little before nine.”
She nods. “I think the meds helped with the fever, but I still feel terrible. My throat hurts so bad I can barely swallow.”
“Maybe this will help,” I say, turning for the tray. I pick it up, motioning for her to lean back against the headboard while I set it on her lap.
Her head bows as she stares down at the contents, and when she glances back up at me, her eyes round in surprise. “Are you gonna eat?”
“Already did,” I lie. “Don’t worry about me.”
She nods and lifts her spoon, taking a tentative bite before she smiles. “This is good. Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” I reach out, rubbing her shoulders and her neck, moving to the muscles in her back, and she moans in response. “Eat your soup, and I’ll keep rubbing,” I say, motioning toward her food.
She nods, and dips her spoon back in the bowl, eating quietly while I massage her aching muscles. Once she’s done, I rise to my feet, but she reaches out and grabs my hand before I can get very far. “Where are you going?” she asks.
“To let you rest, but I’ll be back to check on you. Do you need anything else?”
“No, this is great. Thanks, Jace.”
I hesitate for a moment, my gaze drifting over her small frame tucked away beneath the blankets and feel a pang in my chest, wishing I could stay. But she’s sick and doesn’t feel well. She needs her rest, not me keeping her awake. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
It’s pitch black when I wake to someone grabbing my arm and shaking it. “Jace,” a hoarse voice croaks. I open my eyes and glance around, my vision blurry with sleep as I take a minute to clear the fog from my brain. “Jace,” the voice says again at the same time I focus on her.
I sit bolt upright, noting the crease in her brow. Even in the dim lighting, I can see the flush in her cheeks has returned but the rest of her has drained of color. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Without saying anything, Brynn flicks on the lamp beside the couch. I wince from the sudden light burning my retinas when she lifts the hem of her T-shirt.
Any other time, I’d be fucking ecstatic at the prospect of Brynn flashing me, but as the cotton rises, it reveals a spray of bright red blotches covering her normally smooth skin.
“What the hell isthis?” she cries, her voice froggy from her sore throat.
“Um . . .” I try not to panic as I assess the situation, but it doesn’t look good.
Does she have the fucking measles? The mumps? Hell, if I know.
Carefully, so as not to further freak her out, I lower the soft cotton and glance up at her. “Maybe we should take you to urgent care.”
She nods, and the fact that she agrees with me so readily tells me just how shitty she feels.
Five minutes later, we’re cruising downtown to the closest med express. According to Google, there’s one of those pharmacies with an urgent care clinic only five miles from campus.
We arrive quickly to find the waiting room relatively empty. I help Brynn while she walks on wooden legs into the clinic, then lowers herself into a chair. Her skin is hot to the touchand when I tell her I’ll be right back, she mumbles something unintelligible.
