“It’s not fair to ask now, but I will. If I could think of a way to get us out of this mess, would you want me to do it?”
I’m still holding on to him like he’s the only thing stopping me from falling off the planet. “Like how?”
“However I could. Would you want me to?” If he would be my friend for the days left, it would be enough. It would be wonderful enough to burn away the negativity.
That smile would be enough.
“This is the part of the dream where you smile, Josh.”
He sighs, frustrated. He holds me still, and as I orbit away into sleep, I whisper it through the fog of sleep.
“Of course I would.”
Chapter 11
I sit up cautiously in a bedroom lit bright by sun. Artifacts of illness are strewn everywhere. Towels, washcloths, my Tupperware container washed clean. Glasses and medication and a thermometer. My SLEEPYSAURUS pajama top is hanging from the hamper. So is the red tank. My paintball clothes lie in a puddle and need to be burned.
I suck the thermometer to confirm what I already know: The fever has broken.
I’m wearing a blue tank top now. I clutch the mattress as vulnerability makes a long overdue appearance. I feel my shoulder and realize I’m still wearing my bra. I thank all available gods. But still.
Joshua Templeman has seen all the rest of my torso skin.
I peer out into the living room. He’s still here, sprawled out on the couch, one big-socked foot dangling off the end of the couch.
I grab fresh clothes and stumble into the bathroom. Good gracious. My mascara didn’t wash off properly in my shower and instead melted down my face into an Alice Cooper Halloween mask. I also
have Alice Cooper hair, which I contain in a bun. I change, wash my face as fast as I can, and gargle mouthwash. At any moment I expect a knock on the door.
This feeling is worse than a hangover. It’s worse than waking up after a nude karaoke performance at the office Christmas party. I said too much last night. I told him about my childhood. He knows how lonely I am. He’s seen everything I own. He’s got so much knowledge the power will fog out of him in toxic clouds. I have to get him out of my apartment.
I approach the couch. It’s a three-seat sofa but he can’t remotely fit on it. He jolts before I can get a glimpse of him sleeping.
“I think I’m going to be okay.”
My magazines are stacked. There are no high heels under the coffee table. Joshua has tidied my apartment. He’s lying a few feet from my huge wall cabinet filled with Smurfs, stacked four and five deep.
He turned the lights on, and it’s illuminated proof that I’m mental. He stands up and the room gets a lot smaller.
“Thank you for sacrificing your Friday night. I don’t mind if you want to leave.”
“Are you sure?” He is fussily pressing the backs of his fingers on my forehead, cheek, throat. I am definitely feeling better, because when he touches my throat my nipples pinch in response. I cross my arms over my chest.
“Yes. I’ll be okay now. Go home please.”
He looks down at me with those dark blue eyes and the memory of his smile is overlaid across his solemn face. He looks at me like I’m his patient. I’m no longer elevator-kiss worthy. Nothing like a little vomit to destroy chemistry.
“I can stay. If you can manage to stop freaking out.” There’s a kind of pity on his face and I know why.
It’s not all one-sided—I’ve seen a hidden part of him too during this endless night we’ve survived.
There’s patience and kindness beneath his asshole façade. Human decency. Humor. That smile.
His eyes have flecks of light in their depths and his eyelashes look as if they’d curl against the pad of my little finger. His cheekbones would fit in the curve of my palm. His mouth, well. It’d fit me just about everywhere.
“Your horny eyes are back,” he tells me, and I feel my cheeks heat. “You must be feeling better if you can look at me like that.”
“I’m sick.” I say it primly and I hear his husky laugh as I turn away. He goes into my bedroom and I take several gulps of air.