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With worry gnawing on my gut, I take the clipboard from the receptionist and fill out the intake form the best I can, asking her the odd question while she leans against my shoulder as if sitting is too much of a chore.
After the nurse calls Brynn back, I sit and wait. My shoulder is damp with sweat from where she laid her head and nerves tangle in my chest. It’s probably just a weird virus, something she picked up at Helping Hands. I’m sure she’ll be fine with a little rest and TLC. This is just a precaution.
The door swings open sometime later and Brynn ambles out, shoulders slumped. Her gaze finds mine and she holds up a white pharmacy bag. “Strep throat.”
I sigh, relieved. “Seriously?”
She nods. “Who freaking gets strep throat in July?”
“And the rash?”
“Scarlatina.”
I wrinkle my nose as we start for the door. “Isn’t that—”
“Scarlet fever? Yeah.”
I laugh, and she scolds me with a look.
“Do you think you got it at—”
“Helping Hands? Most definitely.” She stops in front of me and scowls. “The bad news is you’ll probably get it next.”
“Nah. I never get it,” I say as I guide her toward the exit.
“What do you mean you never get it?”
I shrug. “The flu, colds, sinus infections, sure. But strep throat? Never. I had my tonsils removed when I was eight, and I swear it’s the reason I’ve never gotten it since.”
Brynn grunts. “Lucky.”
By the time we step outside, the sun has risen. I open my truck door for her and wait as she slides inside before I close it and get in the driver’s seat.
My gaze lingers over her face—the soft spray of freckles over her nose, the gentle curve of her jaw, her plump, pink lips— and I swallow. Even sick, she’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. “Well, at least the good news is you’ll probably start to feel better in twenty-four to forty-eight hours once the antibiotics kick in, and at least you won’t get worse in the meantime.”
She hums in agreement and her head falls back against the headrest, her eyes fluttered closed.
Once we’re back at the apartment, I help her inside and into bed. Despite her protests, I heat a small bowl of soup for her so she doesn’t get a stomachache with her meds, and afterward, I bring her some ibuprofen and a cup of hot tea with honey for her throat.
“This is weird,” she says, after a moment.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “You. This.” She waves to the empty bowl of soup and her cup of tea. “Were you a bedside nurse in your previous life, or were your parents just extra when you got sick?”
I laugh and reach out, smoothing a strand of hair away from her face. Not because it was in her eyes, but because Ineededto touch her. “It definitely wasn’t my parents, but sometimes, Harriet used to help me when I was under the weather. She’d check up on me and made sure I had everything I needed. I think, since my parents didn’t pay any attention to me, she worried a little more than necessary.” I shrug. “Then, once I got much older, I guess I learned to take care of myself.” When Brynn frowns, I glance away. “I’m sorry. That sounds . . .”
Sad? Lonely?
I swallow. I don’t finish the sentence because any adjective I can think of sounds too damn pathetic.
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. She must sense my desire to drop it because she sets her tea on the nightstand and lies back in bed. In the days prior to her getting sick, we’d beensleeping together, but I don’t know what the protocol is under these circumstances. It’s not like I have much experience to draw from. She’s the longest relationship I’ve had, if you can even call it that, and we haven’t exactly discussed labels. With her sick and miserable, I assume she wants her space, so I start to rise like I did last night.
“Wait. You’re leaving?” she asks.
I glance down at her, grinning at how childlike she looks: pink-cheeked and glassy-eyed, tucked into bed. “I just thought you might want to get some rest.”
“Do you have something you need to do?”
