Page 73 of Breaking the Ice

He catches me looking and smiles at me, giving a little finger wave.

“Aw, you guys are so cute.” Megan nudges me, grinning.

Regan gives a playful roll of her eyes. “Newlyweds! I’m surprised he can stand to be that far away from you.”

“He’s clearly smitten,” MacKenzie says. “Head over heels in love with you, Isabella. It’s so romantic.”

My palms get sweaty at their teasing. I want it to be true, but is it just wishful thinking? Does Evan love me? Or is he just really good at playing his role?

Chapter

Thirty-Three

EVAN

My alarm goes off, interrupting a truly epic sex dream about Isabella. My wife. God, I love how that sounds. And I love the sounds she was making in my subconscious. I hit the snooze button. Maybe there’s enough time to recreate the scenario⁠—

“Eban, I don’t feel so goob.”

“Wha?” I’m a morning person. When my eyes pop open, my brain starts racing, thoughts spinning, and the words follow out of my mouth at a similar pace. But I’m going to need a minute to decipher whatever Isabella is trying to tell me. She repeats her gibberish, her voice scratchy and several octaves deeper than normal.

“You don’t feel so good?” I sit up in bed and turn on the lamp on the milk crate I’ve been using as a make-shift nightstand.

She props herself up on her elbows and winces at the light. “Uh-huh.”

Her color is off. Somehow both too pale and too flushed at the same time, and her eyes have a dull sheen. I put my hand on her forehead like moms do on TV, and she feels hot. Hotter than normal, though? How would I know? She flops down on the bed.

“Um, what hurts?” I ask.

“Eberything.”

“Do you want some cold medicine?”

She nods, so I pad out of bed to the bathroom and throw open the medicine cabinet door behind the peeling mirror. Only to discover that we are understocked for anything that requires more than Tums, Band-Aids, or Advil. Whoops.

I check the clock. Thirty minutes. I’ve got time before conditioning and student teaching. Probably. Thankfully the elementary school starts late enough that I can squeeze in both activities most mornings. I’ll just have to condense my shower and make coffee in the teachers’ lounge instead of swinging through Starbucks's drive-thru.

“Bad news, babe,” I tell her as I toe on my sneakers. “I’ve gotta run to the drug store.”

She reaches for me, snaking her hand around my wrist, both clammy and too warm. “Dob’t do that. You’ll be late. I dob’t tink I can go to school today. I’ll call my mob.”

“No.” Worry churns in my gut.

The men took turns giving me advice at the married student housing event the other night. It was a little overwhelming, but I don’t know what I’m doing, so maybe I should listen. One of the guys, Dustin, told me to never let Isabella rely on her family more than she relies on me. He had this horror story about how he didn’t fix a bathroom plumbing leak when it was a tiny drop. Then it flooded when he was gone and his wife had to call her dad to come help. He let his wife down, and her family thought less of him. He could laugh about it now, but he said if Isabella threatens to call her parents, I should listen and step in before that happens.

Isabella doesn’t need me to fix a leaky pipe—she’d Google it or watch a YouTube video. But I still see the point. No one has ever been able to count on me, and now I have a wife. Despite the fact that I’m the opposite of husband material. But I can do this, I can be here for her.

“No.” I repeat myself. “Don’t bother your mom. I’ve got this.”

Grabbing my keys and coat, I hustle outside, only to remember that I now live on the far, inconvenient side of campus. Not by the hockey arena and practice rink where there was a drug store a block away. Why is married housing the worst? Anxiety claws at my chest, making my heart race. Maybe I don’t have this.

But I have a car, determination, and a positive attitude. That’s enough, right? Too bad there’s no time for coffee or a protein bar, but I’ll survive.

I slide into my Audi and only break a few traffic laws getting to the closest drug store. Jogging inside, I scan the aisles, but what am I looking for? What are Isabella’s symptoms? Cold and flu? Fever? Sinus congestion? Aches and pains? All of the above? How many medications is it safe to take at one time? I should have asked more questions before I left our apartment.

Sweat makes my palms slippery as I pull my phone out of my pocket. I try to call her, but she doesn’t answer. Is she okay? Or did she just fall back asleep?

Pacing up and down the tile floor, the fluorescents buzz overhead. The clock on my phone is not encouraging. Whatever I’m going to do, I need some help. I go to my recent calls and select my best friend’s number.