Page 74 of Breaking the Ice

“Evan?” Concern laces Jonas’s voice. “What’s up?”

“Isabella’s sick, and I don’t know what to do.”

His tone changes to serious and businesslike as he shifts into nurse mode. “What’s wrong? What are her symptoms? Do you need me to come over?”

He would forget about hockey practice and drop everything if I asked him to check on her. Jonas is just that kind of guy. But this is something I need to do for my wife. I take a deep breath.

“She woke up and said she didn’t feel good. She sounded all stuffy and weird and felt hot. But how do I know if it was normal body temperature hot or fever hot?”

“Good news is, she probably has a bad cold or the flu, and you don’t have to take her to HUSH.” The acronym for the Harrison University Student Health center has always felt like an unfortunate choice, but whatever. “Do you guys have a thermometer?”

“No.” I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “I’m at the drug store because it turns out we don’t have anything in our medicine cabinet.”

“Okay, I’ll give you a list.” Holding my phone between my ear and my shoulder, I grab everything he suggests off the shelf, including some cans of soup a few aisles over, a heating pad, and boxes of super-soft Kleenex. He stays on the line with me while I find everything, and he answers all my questions, because he’s a great friend like that.

After I pay for everything, I jump back in my car, wincing at the dashboard clock. My phone clicks over and connects to Bluetooth. “Jonas, there’s no way I can make it to practice on time. I can’t do this. I don’t know how to take care of someone who is sick, and I’m probably a terrible husband.”

There’s a beat of silence while my confession hangs in the air. I rest my head on the steering wheel. I don’t have the luxury of falling apart, but I need a moment.

“Um, I can’t speak to how you are as a husband since I’m not married to you, but in my experience, a good relationship is a lot like being in a really committed friendship.”

“How so?” I ask, raising my head and staring out the dashboard at the deserted parking lot. The plastic bag blowing in the wind doesn’t really strike me as a hopeful sign.

“Well, you know how to be a good friend, so you know how to be a good husband. It’s just kind of an extension of that. You already called an expert,” he makes a self-important little noise, and I have to laugh. “You ran to the store and got everything Isabella might need, and you’re figuring it out. I can cover for you if you’re late to practice. Or if you want to stay home with her and make sure she’s okay, that’s fine, too. I’m sure we can also find someone to check in on her—like Hadley, if you’re worried about that.”

Jonas pauses for breath, and I take a few deep ones, too. My heart rate calms at his words. “I miss having you down the hall, man. You always know what to say.”

“Nah. But you’re better at this than you give yourself credit for. So what do you want to do about practice this morning?”

I bite my lip and look at the clock. It helps, knowing that Hadley could look in on Isabella later in the day. But right now, I’ve gotta get home and see if any of this stuff could help her. And that means I’m not going to make it to practice when it starts. Maybe won’t make it to school, either. That’s not Jonas’s responsibility, though.

“You don’t have to cover for me, man. I’ll figure it out. Your help with all the medicine was amazing—above and beyond, truly.”

“Text or call if you need anything. Seriously,” he says, and I know he means it. “Let me know if her condition changes or you have any questions.”

“I will.”

I put the car in drive and pull out of the parking lot. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never had to take care of anyone before, and I certainly don’t remember my parents taking care of me when I was sick. They were too busy with their important jobs—I got dumped on a babysitter or left on my own. But Jonas thinks I can do this. And Isabella is counting on me. I can’t let her down.

Chapter

Thirty-Four

ISABELLA

The mattress dips beside me, and gravity forces me into the divot. I open my eyes. Our apartment is still dim, and Evan peers down at me, concern wrinkling between his brows.

“Hey.” My voice comes out scratchy, but at least it works. “What’s up?”

“That’s what I was going to ask you. How do you feel?”

I take stock. “Less horrible? I think my fever is gone. But still weak.”

“Do you want some soup?”

At his words, my stomach growls, and I notice the soothing, homey smell of chicken noodle soup. I sit up, a surge of energy hitting me at the thought of food.

“Yes, please. That sounds amazing.”