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This morning I was sure I would start pulling back from her. But the universe laughed at me and threw me into this situation, challenging me to prove I don’t care. But I do. I fucking do.
The doctor leaves me with strict instructions to keep her hydrated and to take her to the hospital if her fever doesn’t break. So much for help.
I search online restlessly and text with Rocco, who is luckily awake with his own care-taking shit.
London is thrashing in my bed as if she is having a nightmare, and I’m pacing around like a caged animal. Fuck this shit.
I follow Rocco’s advice, only because it was suggested in one of the online forums as well, and wet a large towel. After pulling London’s T-shirt over her head, I wrap her in the cold towel and then in a thick blanket and the comforter.
And I wait. And sit. And pace. And sit again. The fifteen minutes lasts an eternity, an endless road stretching before me to a dark place littered with dread.
I slowly unwrap her while she moans and, shit, I would give anything to switch places with her.
I repeat the process three more times before the fever breaks. I force her to drink a bit of water and she swallows and falls asleep again.
Without protesting or fussing, which would be great if this was anyone else. Obliging London only intensifies my dread.Please just get better, Chils.
Seeing her without any fight left in her is up there with collapsing in the middle of the courtroom. A gut-wrenching realization of potential loss. Is this the feeling London lives with every day? It’s so fucking lonely. No one should feel this lonely.
If there was a moment in the last few months I needed a drink, it’s tonight. Instead, I climb in beside her and watch her sleep. She is finally breathing peacefully.
This definitely breaks the no sleepover rule.
Not much faking is left in this relationship.
Chapter17
London
Iopen my eyes, but the room doesn’t come into focus immediately. I close them again because I feel like a steamroller flattened me in my sleep.
I feel like I haven’t moved in ages. Wait a minute. I open my eyes again. I’m at Dominic’s. Goddammit. No sleepovers.
I sit up, but my head swims so violently, I have to close my eyes again and lean forward. Doubled over, I groan. My mind wanders while my head stabilizes. I was sick, and Paris made me stay at Dominic’s because of my dad. How long have I been here?
A few disconnected images flash through my foggy mind. Dominic pacing the room, wiping my forehead, putting a glass to my lips, murmuring words to me, holding me. Caring for me. Fuck.
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” His voice startles me.
I look up, ignoring the vertigo. “What time is it?” I squint at him because my head is so congested it might explode.
“About eleven. How are you feeling?” He walks around and jumps on the bed. It reminds me how he did the same the first night we started fake dating.
It feels different this time, this familiar move I’ve seen him do many times. He puts his hands under his head and crosses his feet at his ankles and winks at me.
I lower myself back to my pillow, facing him. “Thank you for letting me stay.”
“Of course, I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He touches my forehead with the back of his head. “For a day or two I was really worried.”
“A day or two? What do you mean?” I frown. He carried me over on the first.
“It’s the fourth of January, Chils.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’ve been here for almost a week?” I sit up again, but the rushed movement was a bad idea, so I collapse back.
“Three nights, don’t be dramatic.” He chuckles. “Enough time for me to figure out why you don’t do sleepovers.”
I turn my swimming head slowly to face him again. His grin suggests I’m going to hate what’s coming. Dominic reaches in between the large pillows and pulls out my stuffed cat.
