But with June, it isn’t so bad.Maybe it’s the runny nose or bloodshot eyes.Maybe it’s the little sniffles and tired shuffle of feet against the linoleum floor.Maybe it’s my intrinsic need to fix something when everything feels like it’s falling apart in my life right now.Whatever it is, I can’t find it in me to stay back.To keep my distance.To give her a quick peace sign before getting the hell out of Dodge in hopes of not catching whatever is clearly knocking her on her plump little ass.
The question is…why?
Maybe this morning’s sparring session with my brothers doled out one too many hits to the head.Makes sense.
Urging June out of the kitchen, I add, “I’ll let this still count as a date, all right?No need to reschedule if that’s what you’re worried about.”
An adorable little wrinkle forms between her brows.“That’s not it.”
“You sure about that?”
“I feel bad.”
My feet stall at the edge of the kitchen.Feel bad?Like, literally?Because she’s sick?Or because she doesn’t want to bail on our night?It’s not like she can control it.Why on earth would she feel bad?
“Why?”I ask.
“Because you paid for a date, and…”
I guide her to the couch, and she collapses onto it without protest.“And you got sick?”I finish for her.
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, though it comes out as a groan more than anything else.
Scattered along the coffee table is a mountain of wadded-up tissues.Yeah.The girl’s even sicker than I first assumed.It’s almost a shame the whole apartment didn’t catch flames when June attempted to cook earlier.Pretty sure it would be the only feasible option that could take out this virus.
“Should’ve brought a hazmat suit,” I joke.
A mumbled, “I’m sorry,” escapes her as she lies back on the arm of the couch.
“Nah, it’s all good.”I scan her up and down, unsure what to do or how to make her feel better.I hate this feeling.Helplessness.It drags me right back to my childhood.When I wasn’t big enough to defend myself against my father.When I was too little to tag along with Hawke and Jagger on their bikes.When I had to listen to my parents arguing, or my dad’s screaming through the walls, or his racist remarks about Roman, and I couldn’t do anything about it.Not one single thing.
Squeezing the back of my neck, I sit on the edge of the table and take her in.The sundress she chose for our date rides up on her thighs, making her relatively innocent choice nothing short of a red flag in front of a bull.She’s gorgeous.Her milky smooth skin messes with my head.The light dimples playing peekaboo just beneath the hem of her baby blue dress.I tear my attention from the view, determined to play gentleman despite being the furthest thing from one.Plucking a blanket from the back of the couch, I throw it over her.I’d offer to help her change into sweats, but I’m only so strong.The blanket will have to do.
Now what?
Standing, I grab a garbage can from the kitchen, scoop all of the used tissues into the bin, and put it back beneath the sink.Infected tissues taken care of.Check.I wash my hands in the kitchen sink, then look around the small apartment.
Okay,nowwhat?
Do I leave?Stay?Where’s Violet, anyway?I glance toward the front door, then shake my head.It doesn’t matter.I could always call Bryan, but…fuck that guy.If he can take care of her, I can, too, dammit.Trouble is, I don’t have a caregiving bone in my body.Or at least, I haven’t before.Sitting on the edge of the coffee table again, I wipe my palms against my jeans, studying the rise and fall of June’s chest.
What can I do, June Bug?What would you do?
She’s probably an excellent caregiver.Bet she’d have a pot of soup on the stove and everything.Hmm.I press my hand to her forehead, confirming my suspicion.She’s burning up.Medicine.She needs medicine.
“Do you have any allergies to medication?”I ask.
The pressure against my hand intensifies as her head rolls to one side, and she leans into me.“Huh?”
My mouth lifts.“Where do you keep your medicine?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
I stand, wiping my palms against my thighs again.“I’ll be right back.”
The place is as small as I remember.Short hallway.One small bedroom, and a single bathroom the size of a coat closet.I step down the short hall and into the bathroom.I can’t help but inspect the tiny space.It feels like her.Sunshine yellow towels.Navy blue shower curtain with a daisy print.My mouth lifts as I drag my fingertips against the flower-shaped hand soap.
She likes daisies.
