And there goes the frown.
I usually like that frown. It means I’m irritating him in the office, and he’s going to take it out on me by going down on me later in the bedroom.
But I do not feel like doing anything other than sleeping right now.
“Are you sick?” he asks.
“Too much talking at the meetings. And someone brought a cat. I’m allergic.”
Uh-oh. It’s the eyebrow.
He doesn’t believe me.
He shouldn’t, but I really want him to, because he carries the weight of enough people’s worries on his shoulders. He doesn’t need to get tied up in knots over me having a simple cold.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be home in two days.”
His face softens at the word home.
Did I say two days?
Screw that.
I want to be home now.
“Where are your friends?” he asks.
“They’re at book club. With a cat. I shouldn’t be there.”
“Lila.”
“And I’m planning on catching up on some sleep.”
He thrusts his hand through his hair, and I want so bad to be there with him to hug him and promise him I’m fine, but I’m actually feeling a little warm, and I shouldn’t share germs with him or his kids, so going home actually isn’t in the plans right now.
“Send me your address,” he orders.
“You are not coming here. Just in case my…allergies…are contagious.”
“I’m sending Levi to check on you.”
“Tripp.”
“Lila.”
“I’m fine. I promise.”
“You need to see a doctor.”
“I did. Cross my heart. He says I just need to slow down a little. Just like you’ve been saying. And I am. No more conventions or mascot contests or firing any more coaches before spring training. Six more weeks, and all the heavy lifting will be done. We’re halfway there anyway with the coaching staff, right?” I need to quit talking. My throat is on fire, and I’m having a hot flash.
At least, I think that’s a hot flash. But I’m too young to be going through menopause, so maybe I have a low-grade fever.
Tripp’s making that face. The one that says he’s trying very hard to let me do something stupid, and which he usually later comes around to admitting wasn’t actually stupid at all.
Like Fireballs Con.
And the Fireballs and Furballs calendar, which we sold out of in ten days.
I freaking love Copper Valley. Everything we’ve done, the community has responded to. When we need help, the mayor steps up, or one of the other pro sports teams in town, or plain old normal people who just want to participate in something, like being honorary duck guards for an hour.
Although, I don’t think a cold is going to have quite the same impact on productivity and community involvement as everything else I’ve been putting energy into.
“I’m going to bed right now,” I promise him.
It’s seven o’clock. Still so many productive hours left in the day.
But I am. I’m going to bed.
And tomorrow, I’m going to feel much better, and in two days, I’ll be back in Copper Valley, back in Tripp’s arms—possibly with a face mask on, just in case I do have contagious germs—and everything will be just fine.
“I love you,” he says.
I press a kiss to my fingers and wiggle them at the camera. “Love you too.”
Gah, I do.
I love him.
Everything from his stubbornness to his patience, his loyalty to his heart, and his kids, his protectiveness, his intelligence, his passion, his insecurities, even the way he’s been trying so hard to give up his addiction to hand sanitizer—everything.
All those little bits of him that are so much more than the responsible one in that boy band.
The way he’s teaching me that life goes on.
That it’s up to us to live it, and the way he’s helped me embrace who I am.
All of me.
“I’m worried about you,” he says with that same intense look James gets when he’s thinking hard about something that puzzles him.
“I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“That’s what partners do, Lila.”
“I know. And I worry about you worrying about me.”
That earns me a small smile, but it doesn’t erase those lines in his forehead. “Check in first thing tomorrow, and call me if you get worse. Understand?”
“Tripp—”
“Please.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
But I think he knows I’m lying.
Because if my options are making Tripp more worried or taking care of myself, I’m still going to take care of myself.
He has enough other things on his plate.
He doesn’t need me triggering his anxiety about germs too.
30
Tripp
Lila’s not coming home.
The last time I talked to her, she sounded like she had bronchitis and strep throat and the flu and pneumonia and an ear infection and needed her tonsils out, which I can acknowledge is definitely my hypochondria talking, but this morning, she texted that she’s rescheduling her flight because her ears are a little stuffy, which I know damn well means she’s sick as hell.
And that’s not the paranoia talking.
That’s the man who knows she’s trying to shield me from the truth talking.
I tell Waylon to leave my kids with my mom when he’s had enough of them, and I head to the airport, which is what I should’ve done two days ago.
Even using a private jet, the whole process of getting in the air takes too long, and once we’re on our way, I can’t sit still.
Traffic in New York is a nightmare, like usual, made worse by a snowstorm that all the Christmas lights all over the place can’t make better, but at least Levi’s with me. He picks me up at the airport, and he keeps poking me when I start biting my fingernails while his bodyguard drives us through the city.
“Don’t do this,” he says. “It’s a cold. I get why you’re worried, but she’s going to be fine.”
“It’s not just a cold. My gut says so.”
“Your gut’s a hypochondriac.”
“And it’s fucking earned that right.”
He stops arguing, and when we finally make it to Lila’s apartment building, he’s beside me every step of the way.
She needs chicken noodle soup. She needs decongestants and water and sleep. Swear to god, if she’s working, I’m going to sit on her and make her stay on the damn couch until she sleeps for seventeen hours straight, and then make her do it all again tomorrow.
And I need to know this isn’t as bad as I’m afraid it is.
Levi checked on her two days ago and told me she was taking care of herself, that it was a mild cold, and that she wasn’t even as bad as James and Emma were last month.
He was lying, and we both know it, but if she’d been dying, he would’ve told me.
He knows I love her. He knows she’s getting to know the kids more, that they adore her and that she’s asked about them so much while she’s been gone that I’ve been joking she’s only with me for them.