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There’s a large part of me that wonders if leaving Chase to go do that interview was the right thing. Sure, I’m technically contractually obligated to Netflix to attend each of the appearances they have scheduled for me on this tour, but that all seems inconsequential when the thought of something bad happening to Chase is at the forefront of my mind.
The friendly man who drove me to the studio this morning pulls the car to a stop right outside the motor home. I barely give myself the time to thank him before hopping out of the back seat and jogging up the metal stairs with Benji in tow.
I push through the door like a member of a SWAT team heading in to case the place for hookers and blow, but I’m shocked to find Chase smiling at me from his spot in the dining booth.
His appearance is a freshly showered man, wearing clean clothes, and not at all the sickly person I was taking care of last night. There’s color in his skin again, and his blue eyes are back to that brightness I’ve adored since the first moment I met him.
“Wow… You look great, Brooke.” He greets me with words that threaten to make my knees buckle. But he doesn’t give my body any time to melt into a puddle on the floor because he follows that up with, “How’d it go?”
“Uh, thanks, and…it went well,” I respond, and refusing to let myself overthink his “you look great” comment, I swiftly divert to the priority at hand. “You’re feeling better?”
“I definitely am,” he answers, and I note zero misery in his voice. “Though, I’m wondering how bad I made the night for you and if I owe you an apology…?”
“No apology necessary.” I shake my head. “You were a perfect patient. Listened to all of my instructions. Even made it to the bathroom successfully every time you had to throw up.”
“So, I did puke.” He groans. “Damn, I’m so sorry, Brooke.”
“I refuse to accept that apology,” I tell him with a point of my index finger. “For one, Benji here has an issue with trying to eat his own puke, so you’re miles ahead of the worst I’ve seen. And two, you’d do the same for me.”
“I definitely would. No cap.” He winks, and I try not to think about how quickly he agreed to that statement. Or what it would be like to have him take care of me when I’m sick, you know, like a boyfriend would do…
Goodness knows, he’s handled all of your passing-out episodes like Dr. McDreamy, so it’s—
Focus, Brooke. I clear my throat and redirect myself to the most important thing—making sure Chase is doing okay.
“Have you eaten anything?” I ask, and his smile hits me square in the chest.
It’s full and vibrant and not at all the weak, barely there grin he was able to give me when he was delirious with fever and nausea last night.
“Managed to get a bagel down and an insane amount of water, too. Even showered about an hour ago.”
“So, you’re, like, fully mended, then?”
“Yep. Completely recovered and ready to get us on the road,” he says, and all of a sudden, it feels like relief and disappointment are battling each other for the top spot in my stomach.
Why on earth would I be disappointed that he’s feeling better?
Because you’re a sad panda that you don’t get to keep taking care of him like some kind of crazy mother with Munchausen by proxy.
Holy hell. It’s looney toons thoughts like that that make me wonder if I need to get my head checked pronto.
Uh…ya think?
“You feelin’ okay?” Chase asks, his eyes observing my face a little too closely. “God, I really hope I didn’t get you sick.”
He’s evidently mistaken my internal mental breakdown for something else.
“I’m good,” I respond and push a smile to my lips. “And super-duper happy that you’re feeling better.” Sure, there’s a part of me that wanted to keep playing nurse for the man of my dreams, but all in all, I’m relieved that Chase came out victorious on the other side of whatever was kicking his ass last night.
“Me too,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “You have no idea.”
“So, it’s settled, then? You’re feeling good enough to drive us to Vegas as planned?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“Are you sure? Because it’s really no big deal if—”
“Brooke, I’m positive.”
“So positive that you’d pinkie promise on it?”
He laughs, stands up from the booth, and does exactly what he did the last time I asked him to pinkie promise. He gently pushes my hand away and pulls me in for a hug. “I’m good to go, Brooke. And most of that is because of you. Thanks for taking care of me.”
“You’re welcome,” I whisper, and I discreetly inhale the perfect scent that is a mixture of Chase’s body wash and cologne and him.
