Page 29 of Embracing the Beat
I lift my hand to brush a finger across her forehead, and before I even make contact, I know. Heat radiates from her skin when I finally rest the back of my hand against her cheek.
“Sweetheart, you’re burning up. Have you had any medicine?”
I glance around, even though I know better. She hasn’t been out of her room to grab water, let alone medicine.
“C-c-cold.” She flinches away from my touch and tries to bring her covers back up.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I tuck the covers around her. “Let me get you something to help it.”
“Don’t need…”
“You do,” I argue. “You’re running a fever. You need meds and water. Some food too.”
“Mmm.”
Leaving her on the bed, I grab Tylenol and a glass of water from the kitchen, tucking a Gatorade in my pocket for later. The food will need to wait until her fever comes down. Despite being open for a few minutes, her room is still stuffy, so I make a decision she’d never let me get away with if she wasn’t sick. Putting the glass and bottle of acetaminophen on my dresser, I go back into her room and grab a pair of clean pajamas before I turn back to the bed where she’s fallen asleep again.
“Come on, baby.” I burrow an arm under her knees and one under her shoulders and lift. It doesn’t take much since she’s so fucking tiny.
Her personality is what makes her seem larger than life.
She shivers in my arms but otherwise doesn’t move until I rest her on top of the covers of my bed, making quick work of changing her clothes for fresh pajamas. I press two pills into her hand and watch her swallow them with a sip of water. Once she’s finished with that, I tuck her into my bed, brushing a kiss on her too-warm temple.
Satisfied that she’s resting, I head back to her room, stripping the bed and pulling the blanket off the floor where it covers her vent. Hopefully this will air the room out—the smell of sickness is strong enough to clench my stomach in sympathy.
Why didn’t she tell me?
I already know the answer—she hadn’t talked to me because of what I said to her in the kitchen.
Avoiding the guilt threatening to wash over me, I plug her phone in to the charger and head to the laundry room with her sheets. When I get upstairs to check on her again, she hasn’t moved, but the deep grooves in her forehead have eased, and her breathing is deep and even.
I should have checked on her earlier. Actually checked on her. Not just asked questions through a thick door. Did she think I would ignore her if she asked for help?
“Don’t answer that,” I mumble to myself.
Why would she think I wouldn’t help her?
I’m her friend. Shouldn’t that count? I’m good at taking care of people. I’d done it with Ashley. If I were alone, I’d probably do what Mikey had done—hole up in my room and pray for death while I slept. But when Ashley or I had been sick, we trusted each other to help.
The misplaced trust in my ex-fiancée is another gaping wound, and I shove all thoughts related to her into the box they escaped from.
Mikey kicks the covers off, her body battling the fever as she tosses and turns. I rinse a washcloth in cool water and place it on her forehead. She settles for a little while before shivering again, and I tuck her back into the covers. An hour later, I take a break and grab a sandwich for myself before returning. She’s cooler to the touch, but the flush of the fever still covers her cheeks.
I rest against the headboard, dozing between doses, and ignore the question pinging around my brain. But the thought is harder to avoid the next time I wake up to check on her, and yet again, for the last dose of meds I give her around two in the morning.
Would I do this for Sawyer, too?
