I pick it back up. “What?”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come? I will. I’ll get right in the car, right now.”
I don’t like for Gran to drive long distances by herself. And I don’t want her near me if I’m contagious, either. “No, I’m fine. Seriously. I’m just going to sleep it off.”
“Love you, Abigail. I’ll call you later to check on you.”
“Love you too, Gran.” I let the phone fall to the bed again as I pull the covers up under my chin, my teeth chattering.
As the sun sets, I wake up to the sound of someone knocking on the front door. I’ve been in and out of consciousness all day, getting up only long enough to go pee and to force myself to drink something. But I haven’t done anything more than that. Once, I’d gotten up and pulled Gran’s old heating pad from the closet and plugged it in because I couldn’t get warm enough.
But now I’m sweaty. My clothes are damp, the sheets are damp. I must have been sweating beneath the covers. I feel gross.
The knock sounds again, and I hear the lock turn, meaning someone has a key, as the front door opens. “Abigail,” a deep voice calls out. “Are you here?”
The footsteps stop in the front room. “No,” I call back weakly.
The footsteps come toward the bedroom, but I’m too sick to care. “Abigail?” Ethan says. I can see him silhouetted in the doorway of the bedroom with the light limning his body. “Close your eyes,” he says. “I’m going to turn the light on.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The light still hurts when he turns it on, so I moan into my pillow.
“I heard you were sick,” he says. He walks over to the bed, and he reaches out to touch my forehead with the back of his hand. “You’re burning up.” He takes a little machine out of his pocket and rolls it across my forehead. “One-oh-three-point-two.” Jesus, why didn’t you tell me? I would have come sooner.”
“Who told you I was sick?” My voice cracks as I talk.
“Your grandmother called the Jacobsons, and Katie was coming over here to bring you the pain relievers you need.” He holds up the little thermometer. “She also told Katie to take your temperature.” He grins at me as he shakes a bottle of pills in front of my face. “But Katie walked by my tent and told me where she was going, so I volunteered to come instead.”
“Gran called them?” I croak. My throat is stinging like it’s on fire.
“She called them and gave them a list of things you need. And she told them where to find the key that was hidden outside.” I see that he’s still holding on to a plastic shopping bag, which he sets on the side of the bed. “So I went to the store and got all of the things your grandmother said you would need when I took Mitchell back to Ma’s house.”
He starts to unload the bag. He has a carton of purple juice, the kind from the refrigerated section of the grocery store.
“What’s the deal with the purple juice, anyway?” he asks. “It was on the list.” He goes to the kitchen to get a glass, and when he comes back he opens the juice container and pours a few inches into the glass. Then he sticks in a straw. That must have been on Gran’s list too, because I know there are no straws in the house. “She said it didn’t matter what flavor it is, that it just had to be purple. And I had to give it to you with a straw.” He holds out a piece of paper. “Katie actually wrote all her instructions down.”
“I like purple juice,” I manage to say. I let him hold the straw to my lips and I take a few tentative sips, but they burn like fire going down.
“Most people would say ‘I want pomegranate juice’ or ‘I want grape juice.’”
“No,” I say. “I just want purple juice.”
He opens the bottle of pain relievers and shakes two into his hand. “Take these.”
There’s no way they’re going down my throat. I turn my head away.
“You have to take them,” he says. He holds them out to me again.
“Nuh-uh,” I grunt at him, turning my face farther away. “They’re too big.”
“That’s what she said too,” he mutters. Then he laughs to himself and walks back to the kitchen. A minute later, he’s handing me two pills that have been cut into pieces. I hold out my hand so he can lay them in my palm. One by one, I drop the pieces on my tongue and take a sip after each one. They feel like shards of glass going down, but I need them. I ache all over.
He looks at me like he’s examining me. “How long have you been sick?”
“I woke up feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck.” I kick the covers down to my feet, suddenly hot again, not even thinking that I’m wearing nothing but a Lake Fisher t-shirt and panties. His eyes glance down and then quickly back up.
“Why didn’t you come and get me?”
He brushes my hair back from my forehead, and I preen like a cat, pushing against his palm. He very lightly starts to drag his fingertips across the feverish skin under my bangs, and it feels so good.
“You had Mitchell,” I remind him.
“So your staying away was just because you were sick?” he asks. I open my eyes and find him staring down at me, his gaze open and trusting, but wary.
I nod even though that hurts too. “What else would it be?”
“I thought maybe after last night…”
“No, I had planned to come and see you guys today. I just couldn’t make it.”
I roll over onto my stomach and shift one leg to the side, trying to get comfortable. I feel my panties ride up into my butt crack, but I’m just too sick to care.
I don’t complain when I feel his fingertips grab the hem of my panties and pull them out of my butt so that I’m fully covered. “Thank you,” I murmur.
He chuckles. “I live to serve,” he replies. He lifts the sheet from the foot of the bed and covers me up to my waist. “What can I get you?”
“Nuffin’,” I mutter into my pillow.
“I’m going to run home and get my book, and then I’ll be back, okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “You can go. I don’t want you to get sick too.”
“Give me five minutes. I’ll be right back.”
I wake up a few hours later, and I find him lying next to me on the queen-size bed. He’s on the outside of the covers while I’m on the inside. He has one arm behind his head and a book lies open, upside down, on his chest. A small lamp burns on the bedside table. His mouth is open a little, and tiny snoring sounds come from his nose.
He jerks awake when I move. “Are you okay?”
“No. I’m sick.” I try to get up, but my body hurts too bad, so I just moan as I roll onto my back.
“What can I do for you?”
“Nothing.” My voice is not more than a whisper. That’s because it hurts to talk. It hurts to breathe, too, but I’m doing it. Out of necessity.
“It’s time for more meds.” He sits up and drops his feet to the floor. I see his shoes sitting next to the wall. “Do you want me to cut them up again?”
“Only if you want me to take them.”
He chuckles as he goes to the kitchen, and he comes back a minute later with a fresh glass of purple juice and some more pain relievers.