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“Nah,” she waved a hand. But then she rested it at the base of her throat, like she longed to massage it.
Uh huh. “Don’t hesitate to come in if you think you need anything,” I offered, trying to make it sound nonchalant. What I really wanted to do was make sure she didn’t walk out of my exam room without getting treated herself.
“Thanks,” she said, and sounded sincere.
Calla sat up and poked her bandage with interest. “It doesn’t hurt anymore!”
“It might hurt a little,” I warned her, cleaning up after the procedure and removing my gloves. “Your mom knows what medicine to give you to help with that, so make sure you take it when she asks, okay?”
“Okay,” Calla said brightly.
Angela came back into the room with discharge papers cradled in her arm. She usually gave my patients their discharge and after care instructions, but I found myself reluctant to leave the pair. “Any questions, Mrs. Brook?” I asked Laurel.
She seemed tired, suddenly, like the worry for her daughter had singlehandedly kept her on her feet, and now that it was gone, she wanted to lie down and dissolve into a liquid state. “I don’t think so,” she said, her voice hoarser.
Definitely sick, I thought grimly. That wasn’t going to make for a fun weekend for either of them. “Okay, well, like I said, I’m here through Saturday if you have any questions.”
Laurel nodded. I turned to leave them, my misgivings gnawing away at my conscience. I had barely met the two of them, but the desire to turn back around and ensure they were safe and healthy tugged at my core like an invisible string.
But as soon as my hand hit the door latch, Clarice was there with another chart, and another problem, another patient, stole my attention from my misplaced concerns. It was a small town, but it was likely I wouldn’t see them again. All in all, that was probably for the best.
Three
Laurel
Imanaged to get us home before the fever roared to life, burning every molecule in my body with sweat-inducing heat. I got Calla set up on the couch with more screen time—I could beat myself up over that later—and chugged a few swallows of blue cold medicine. While Calla happily munched on the French fries I had grabbed from the drive-through on the way home, I lay on the other end of the couch, wrapped myself in a blanket, and prayed to God the shivering would stop.
At the very least,I thought as I fought sleep,please make me stop thinking about the hot doctor.
I mean, seriously, if you mated a cinnamon roll with an action figure, it would give birth to that guy. Accomplished and smart? Clearly. Kind but sexy? Abundantly.
Hotter than fucking Mercury? Devastatingly. I hadn’t even seen his whole face, but just his caramel eyes, bulging muscles, and deft fingers had had me thinking all kinds of inappropriate things.
Certainly not things amothershould have been considering with her child lying on a hospital bed.
I couldn’t remember what I needed to do in order to atone for the filthy thoughts that had played like a movie through my head in that exam room, but there probably weren’t enough Hail Marys in the Vatican for that kind of immaturity.
And even worse, his hotness had only been exacerbated by his oozy, dessert-quality sweetness. Even after my bad cannoli pun. No, actually—Hell—he’d laughed at it. He might not have even hated it.
That’s your fever talking, my inner voice chided.
Whether I was hot and bothered from the fever or from spending an hour around Dr. Cade, I at least understood why everyone had gone dreamy-eyed when they’d mentioned him to me. Dr. Cade was definitely memorable, but I had to let reason take over and admit that it would be better if we never saw him again. Honestly? My bank account couldn’t afford it and my common sense wouldn’t survive it.
* * *
Whatever the virus was, it kicked me in the teeth. Or, rather, the throat, head, and every muscle in my body. I woke up on Friday morning barely able to type in a sub request in the database. I didn’t know if they found one. I collapsed back into fitful dreams where everyone was five times larger than me and anything I touched tumbled from my grasp because my fingers wouldn’t work right.
Calla woke a little after dawn. We had both fallen asleep on the couch, and she said in a sad, sleepy voice that her cut was hurting.
I sat up stiffly, craning my neck to peer across the tiny kitchen of our apartment toward the door to the cardboard box-sized bathroom. It was so far.
With a groan that barely made any sound at all through my swollen throat, I pushed myself off the couch and staggered to the bathroom. I found the last little dollop of purple children’s acetaminophen, pulled it into a syringe at the exact amount for her weight, and brought it to Calla. She swallowed it, and her big, brown eyes watched me uncertainly. “Are you sick, Mom?”
I nodded, not wanting to speak. But I brushed a hand down the side of her face and gave her a weak grin, pointing to the TV. “Movie day,” I rasped.
“Yay!” she jumped up enthusiastically. “Can I have juice and donuts for breakfast?”
I sighed, falling back onto the couch heavily. “Sure.”
