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My stomach isn’t feeling great, either. As a matter of fact, I’m actually starting to feel worse.
Much worse.
“I just hope to God it’s not the flu,” Joe’s mom says, lifting him onto her hip. She cups a hand over his forehead. Feels his cheeks. She frowns.
“Does he feel warm?” I ask.
She looks at me. “He does. Not a good sign.”
I feel my own forehead. My stomach clenches when I find it’s hot to the touch.
Oh, Lord. Oh, God, please, please no. I cannot afford to be sick right now. Least of all with the flu. I had it back in college—Ford will remember—and I was laid out for weeks.
Panic grips my windpipe, making the ache in my throat—when did that start?—intensify. I have every minute of the next five days scheduled: writing, recipe testing, photography. I have to make this deadline.
Have to. My publisher, my agent, my readers—my God, they are all depending on me to get this done. But if I have the flu—
“Hey.” Ford comes right up to me as soon as the game ends. I insisted he take Bryce home after she got sick, but he insisted they stay until the game was over. Now she’s slung over his shoulder, pitifully quiet. “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
Immediately he reaches out and puts a hand on my forehead. My panic softens, if only for a few heartbeats.
He doesn’t say anything, but he purses his lips.
“I’m going to take Bryce to Urgent Care,” he says at last. “I’ll tell them you live with us—see if I can snag an extra prescription of Tamiflu for you and I. It can be preventative if it’s taken early enough. In the meantime, I need you to go straight home and go to bed. Understood?”
“Ford—”
“Nu-huh. You won’t get sick. Not on my watch. Once I’m done with Bryce, I’ll have my parents come watch her so I can bring over the meds and some Gatorade to your place. Take it easy until then. If you need to work, bring your laptop into bed with you.”
His eyes search mine. Full of concern.
“Thanks,” I say. “How are you feeling?”
His mouth sets in a grim line. “I’ll be fine. Go home, E. Please. I know how much you need to get done with this deadline—I need to nip whatever this bug is in the bud.”
“It’s not your fault if I get sick. You know that, right?”
“No, it’s not my fault. But if you caught something because you’ve been hanging out with my daughter and all her germy little friends, then it is my responsibility to take care of you. I’m so sorry, E.”
I put my hand on his chest. My panic is back full force, head throbbing, but I don’t want to upset him any more than he already is. Poor guy’s got a sick baby. Whatever is going on with me—I’ll figure it out. Fight through it.
“No need to apologize. Call me when you’re done at Urgent Care. Let me know how Bryce is doing, all right?”
He looks at me. “All right. I really am sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say.Chapter Twenty-NineEvaI try—Lord, do I try—to push through the fever and the aches and the chills over the next twenty-four hours. But when you can’t keep anything down, not even water, it’s impossible to stand upright, much less finish a cookbook.
Ford was able to get me the Tamiflu, but it was too late. I’m diagnosed with the flu the next day. My temperature is so high the doctor warns I could experience fainting spells.
It’s exactly what you don’t want to hear when you have a deadline looming.
I panic. I try to talk myself off the ledge. But the fever is making my brain short circuit. Ford and my mom take turns looking after me—by some miracle, neither of them gets sick—which I’m grateful for, because I am a hot mess.
I keep track of the countdown as the days pass. Four more days. I can finish the book in four days.
Three days. I’m feeling a little better, so if I pull an all-nighter on Tuesday, I can have the book to my editor by midnight Wednesday.
I can pull it out of my ass in two days. Just need to work around the clock.
But by Tuesday morning, it’s becoming apparent I’m too sick to make my deadline. I soak my snotty pillow with tears as panic absorbs whatever little rationality the fever hasn’t already sucked from my brain.
I’m angry with myself for cutting it so close.
I’m panicked my readers will hate me for disappointing them. I’ve stoked their excitement to a fever pitch. What if they abandon me? Lose their enthusiasm for this project?
What about my sponsors? If website traffic goes down, they may not want to renew their agreements. I was also hoping to pick up some new sponsors as we head toward publication. The extra money would go a long ways in helping me pay my bills. Never mind royalties from the book itself.
