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I wake up four days after puking in Derek’s car. I hardly remember anything since leaving the bar. Sickness stole over me so quickly, I knew I was in trouble. I’ve spent the last four days in a haze of fever. I don’t remember much.
Except Braxton.
Every time my eyes fluttered open, he was there, as if he was doing nothing but waiting for me to wake up. He gave me water in little sips, and later something that tasted like watered-down Gatorade. He helped me go to the bathroom, his arms around me while I shuffled down the hall, almost too weak to stand. It didn’t escape my notice that he cleaned up the puke from when I spewed all over trying to run to the toilet.
He slept next to me, in my bed. We didn’t talk about it; he just did. I’m grateful as shit, especially because the first night, I woke up needing to hurl again. He was up in an instant, putting a glass bowl in front of me so I wouldn’t get it on the bed. Then he cleaned me up and tucked me back in bed, holding me tight against him. I shivered, so cold, until his body heat warmed me, cutting through the shakes the fever gave me. I slept soundly. I was no longer afraid.
I realize the worst must be over when I wake up hungry. Brax isn’t in bed, but I know he’s still here. I can hear faint sounds coming from the kitchen, but it isn’t that. I just know. I can feel his presence in my apartment. His magnetism.
My bed smells like him. It’s such a strange thing, but it smells so good that I lean my head into the pillow he’s been using and breathe it in.
This is wrong. Really wrong. He’s been the absolute best friend in the entire world, taking care of me when I was sick. I should not be thinking these thoughts about him. Plus, I’m with Derek. I have a boyfriend, and it’s kind of serious—serious enough that doing anything with Brax would absolutely be cheating.
And fuck, it’s Braxton. Never mind how incredible it’s been to have him here, sleeping beside me. How my body molds to his, fitting like we’re two puzzle pieces. How deeply touched I am that he would do this for me—stay with me for days, wait on me hand and foot, clean up my fucking puke.
We’ve been friends for a long time, and we’ve always been there for each other when things are rough, but this is on another level.
I’ve been deliriously sick for days and I don’t remember getting any phone calls or texts. That seems odd, especially because I’d think Derek would have called. My breath freezes in my chest. Did he call and talk to Brax? Shit, that isn’t good.
My phone is on the nightstand, but it’s turned off. I power it back on and look to see if I have any voicemails or missed calls. There’s a voicemail from my dad that’s two days old, and a few texts from Selene. But there’s nothing from Derek.
Braxton appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “I knew you looked better this morning,” he says.
I blink at him, still feeling disoriented. I’m having trouble remembering what’s real and what was a fever dream.
The shower has to be a dream. There’s no way he showered with me like that.
“Yeah,” I say, sitting up in bed. I’m wearing a loose t-shirt with no bra, and plain cotton underwear. Maybe I should feel self-conscious about being half-naked, but I don’t. I’m pretty sure Brax dressed me, and somehow that isn’t weird. I glance down at my phone again. “Has my phone been off the whole time?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he says. “I turned it off so it wouldn’t disturb you. You weren’t in any state to talk to people anyway.”
“No,” I say. Did Derek really not call? “Thanks.”
“Are you hungry yet?”
“I think I’m starving, but it’s hard to tell,” I say. My stomach feels empty, but very raw. “I’m a little bit scared to eat anything.”
“I’ll get you some soup,” he says. “We’ll start off slow.”
“Brax, you don’t have to do that,” I say.
He shrugs. “It’s fine. I’m hungry anyway.” He walks away before I can say anything else.
I check again to see if there’s any way I’m not seeing Derek’s calls. I puked in his car, and ran off to my apartment with my hand clamped to my mouth, still vomiting. It was pretty obvious I was sick. Would he really leave me here and not call to see if I’m okay? That seems unlikely.
Still, I wonder what’s going on, so I bring up his number and hit send.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hey,” I say. “Are you busy?”
“Just prepping for the game tomorrow.” He sounds irritated.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to bother you. I just … I haven’t talked to you for a while. My phone was turned off, so I’m sorry if you tried to call.”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t try to call?” I ask.
