I hit send and immediately regret it.
The replies start coming in fast and overlapping.
Hadley:You’re killing me, Tiny.
Tessa:OMG YOU’RE SICK??? Did you get your date sick? Please tell me you didn’t kiss her.
Erica:Go home and sleep.
Scarlett:How long have you been feeling like this? You’ve sounded off the last couple days.
Tessa:This is why you were being extra dramatic tonight!!! I KNEW something was off.
Hadley:One more. Scarlett’s girl. Don’t be an asshole about it.
Scarlett:Maybe you should come in and see Sophie. She’s at the clinic tomorrow morning. I can text her and let her know you’re coming if you want.
Tessa:Do you need soup?? I can make Cole bring you soup. Or I can come over and dramatically nurse you back to health. Your choice.
Hadley:Go home and sleep. You sound like shit.
I stare at my phone, a small smile tugging at my mouth despite how shitty I feel. These women are going to be the death of me. I shove my phone back in my pocket, start the bike, and head toward home instead of Perdition. One more date. Then I can go back to being alone in peace. Probably, if I don’t die first.
I wakeup feeling like I got hit by a truck. Twice. My head is throbbing, my throat feels like it’s been sanded raw, and every muscle in my body aches like I spent the night getting my ass kicked. The cold that was already trying to murder me yesterday has officially won. I feel like absolute shit, bigger shit than yesterday. Record-breaking, world-class shit.
I don’t even bother trying to tough it out. I drag myself out of bed, throw on the first thing I find, a black hoodie and gray sweats, and shove two tissues up my nose. I don’t even care how ridiculous I look. I just need to not feel like I’m dying anymore.
Scarlett told me to come see Sophie, and for once in my life, I’m actually listening to one of them. No passing go. No collecting two billion dollars. I’m going straight to the damn clinic. I grab my keys, pull the hood up over my head, and head out.
The clinic is packed when I walk in. There are people everywhere, coughing kids, tired parents, a couple of old folks sitting in the waiting area. The place smells like hand sanitizer and sickness, and the second I step through the door I feel about ten times worse. I probably look like death. A six-foot-seven giant in a hoodie and sweats with tissues hanging out of his nose. I’m sure I’m making everyone’s day better just by existing.
I keep my head down and shuffle toward the front desk, already regretting every decision that led me here, until I see her.
She’s sitting behind the desk, sorting through a stack of forms with one hand while talking to an older woman who looks confused about her paperwork. Her honey blonde hair is twisted up in a messy bun, a few strands falling around her face. She’s wearing light blue scrubs under a soft cream cardigan that looks way too big on her, like she’s trying to hide in it.
She’s smiling at the old lady. Not a fake customer-service smile, but a real one. Like she actually gives a damn that the woman is struggling.
Well, hell.She looks like sunshine in the middle of this miserable, germ-infested waiting room. Just… warm. The kind of warm that makes you want to stand closer and feel it.
The old lady leaves and goes to sit down. She glances up as I step closer to the desk, and her aquamarine eyes meet mine.Aquamarine? What the fuck is wrong with me?For a second, I forget I have tissues shoved up my nose and look like I crawled out of a ditch.
She blinks, then offers me that same soft smile she gave the old lady. “Good morning,” she says gently. “How can I help you?”
I open my mouth, but my voice comes out rough and pathetic. “Uh… Scarlett told me to come see Sophie. Said I should get checked out.” I sniff, which makes one of the tissues shift. I quickly push it back up with the back of my hand like that’s gonna save my dignity. “I feel like shit. Pretty sure I’m dying.”
Her eyes flick to the tissues in my nose, then back to my face. If she thinks I look ridiculous, she doesn’t show it. She just nods, calm and kind, like she deals with giant sick bikers every day.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Let me get you checked in. What’s your name?”
“Jacob Wellington, the Third,” I mutter, then immediately wince. “God, don’t call me that. Just Tiny. Or Jacob. Or ‘that giant idiot who came in with tissues up his nose.’ Any of those work.”
A tiny smile tugs at her mouth, but she keeps typing. “Date of birth?”
I rattle it off, then sniff hard. One of the tissues shifts again and I have to shove it back up with zero grace. “Sorry. I’m disgusting right now. I woke up feeling like I got hit by a bus. Then the bus backed up and hit me again. I think my organs are filing for divorce.”
She glances at me, eyebrows raised slightly, but her voice stays soft. “Any fever? Body aches? Sore throat?”
“All of the above,” I say, waving a hand. “I feel like my brain is trying to escape through my eyeballs. I haven’t eaten since yesterday because everything tastes like sadness and regret. I almost cried when I saw a commercial for soup. Actual tears. I’m not okay.”
