“Hey,” she calls, giving me a wave. Jackson gets up, smiling, and starts running again for Scarlet to chase him. “Your dad’s home,” she tells him, but he doesn’t stop. “Jackson,” she calls again, and this time he stops.
“Hi, Dad!” He gives me a quick wave and turns to Scarlet again. “Can we keep playing now?”
“Dinner’s ready and waiting,” she reminds him. “I know it’s not Tuesday, but we’re having tacos.”
“Sounds good.” I stop a few feet from Scarlet, and suddenly everything feels so fucking weird. We function like a couple but don’t touch each other. She takes care of my son, and he’s enamored with her. She’s a little odd, but it’s one of the many things I find so damn attractive about her.
And that kiss we shared her first weekend here…there’s no denying we have chemistry.
“Have you heard from your sister?” Scarlet asks, brushing leaves out of Jackson’s hair. “I was going to text her and see how things are going but didn’t know if that would be overstepping.”
“I don’t think it would be, and yeah, I did. Things are going as well as they can, considering.”
Scarlet nods. Her concern is genuine, and her friendship with my sister makes this even weirder. No one in my family liked Daisy much. They tolerated her for my sake, but she never even made an effort to hang out with Quinn.
“That’s good, I guess. It’s hard when you think someone is doing well and then things go right back to the beginning.” She gets a distant look in her eyes, and I get a feeling she’s speaking from experience. “And Wes…”
“Yeah?”
“What you did for him was really nice.”
“Bobby’s not a terrible person, and arresting him is hard on Quinn and Archer.”
“You really care about your family. It’s not something I see too often.” A slight flush colors her cheeks. She pushes her hair back, finding leaves at the end of her long locks, and shakes her head. “We should get in and eat.”
“Yeah,” I agree. We all go into the house, and by the time I get changed and back down, the table is set, and Mexican music is playing from Scarlet’s phone.
“We’re having a fee-yes-ta,” Jackson tells me, proud of himself for learning a new word. He takes my hand and leads me to the table. There are chips and salsa already out on the table, and Scarlet brings over two margaritas.
“They’re virgin, obviously, since there’s no tequila in the house.”
“I have one too!” Jackson picks up his plastic up and wants to “do cheers” with everyone. Dinner is good, and Jackson tells me about his trip to the orchard. My sore throat gets worse, and by the time I get Jackson bathed and in bed, I have a bad headache.
“Not feeling well?” Scarlet asks when she sees me get a bottle of painkillers from a cabinet in the kitchen.
“I think I’m getting sick,” I admit.
She sets her book down on the table and gets up, coming right over to me. She doesn’t stop until her small frame is lined up with mine, and she presses the back of her hand to my forehead. “You have a fever.”
“You don’t know that.”
Pursing her lips, she turns around and gets the thermometer and swipes it across my forehead. “See?” She flips it over to show me my temperature. “One hundred and one point seven. You are sick.”
“I’ll be fine in the morning.”
“Hopefully. You should go to bed and try to rest.”
I make a face. “I’ll go to bed later. I want to watch TV for a while.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You sound like a child.”
“And do you go to bed at eight-thirty when you’re sick?”
“Oh, of course. And I drink extra water and always make sure to take my vitamins.”
“Don’t give up your day job to pursue stand-up comedy.”
She laughs. “But my witty sarcasm is everyone’s cup of tea.” She sets the thermometer down and goes back to her book. “Do you want to continue American Horror Story?”
“Sure,” I say, and we go into the living room together. I make it through one episode before I start to feel worse, and as much as I want to stay on the couch and imagine taking things farther with Scarlet, I go up to bed.
I feel even worse when I wake up in the morning. Scarlet is already downstairs making Jackson breakfast.
“How are you feeling?” she asks, cutting up an apple.
“I’ve been better.”
She trades the knife for the thermometer and takes my temp again. “Your temp went up. You should stay home.”
“I’ll take some Tylenol and my fever will go down. I’ll be fine.”
“Wes?”
The kitchen light turns on and I look up, blinking. Scarlet stands in the threshold, hand still on the light switch, eyes narrowed as they adjust to the dark.
“You okay?”
I pick up the pill bottle I dropped, head throbbing so bad it’s hard to function. “A little shitty,” I admit. I felt like shit when I came home from work, and the fever never went away. I don’t get sick often, but when I do, it’s usually bad.
And right now, I feel like I’m dying.
She crosses the kitchen, stopping in front of me and putting her hand on my cheek. “Jesus, you’re burning up.” She grabs the thermometer. “One-oh-three point four. That’s really high, and you’ve had a fever for over twenty-four hours. Maybe you should go into the ER or something. You could be dehydrated.”
“I don’t need to go to the ER.”
She takes the pill bottle from me, looking worried. “Trust me, I’m not one to suggest going to the hospital, like ever, since they rip you off on bills.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s bullshit, but having a high fever for this long isn’t good for you.”
“Are you worried about me?”
“Maybe.”
She takes out two pills and hands them to me. I grab a glass and fill it with water.
“No need to worry.” I try to smile, but the lights above me are making my headache worse. I’m not entirely sure I won’t throw up. “I’m gonna go back to bed.”
“I’m going to come check on you in twenty minutes,” she says seriously, “and make sure your brain hasn’t fried.”
Bringing my hand to my forehead, I nod, wincing from the movement, before dragging my ass back up the stairs. I crash into bed, closing my eyes and praying for the Tylenol to bring down this damn fever and make the headache go away.
It doesn’t.
I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable, which is hard to do since every bone in my body is aching now. Scarlet softly knocks on the door.
“Wes?” she whispers. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah.” I sit up, squinting in the dark. I can see the glow of the thermometer in her hand as she draws near. She sits on the edge of the bed and brushes my hair back. Her touch is soft and gentle, instantly comforting me.
“You still feel warm.”
“It’s been twenty minutes already?” I mumble.
“Eighteen. I’ve been timing it.”