Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Wanted to see if you’re up to dinner tonight with me? Maddi’s feeling better but planning on hanging with my sister-in-law and watching movies since she’s not allowed to go to her friend’s birthday party.
Darn. I’d really love to see him.
Sorry, I think I caught Madeline’s bug . . . Another night?
I press “Send” and have started to close my eyes when my phone rings. I don’t look at who’s calling, I just swipe and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“You’re sick?” Lucas’s deep voice asks.
My stomach, which was already feeling funny, feels funnier.
“Yeah.”
“Do you have meds? What’s your address?” He asks the second question before I can even open my mouth to answer his first one.
“Why?” I ask as a wave of nausea hits me hard.
“What’s your address?” he repeats. I give it to him without thinking, because my stomach rolls and bile crawls up the back of my throat. I drop my cell so I can cover my mouth with my hand, then toss back the blankets and rush to the toilet, where I puke again.
With my eyes closed and my body still heaving, I lift my head from the arm that’s resting on the edge of the toilet and turn on the shower. Once it’s warm, I get in and lean against the cold tile. I don’t think I have ever been this sick before. With the little energy I have left, I wash up, then brush my teeth. I make it back to my bedroom in a towel and get under my blankets. I don’t remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know I’m awakened by someone knocking on my door. I try to ignore them, but the knocking doesn’t stop—and soon turns to pounding.
“What the heck?” I groan out loud as I toss back the blankets and get out of bed, tucking my towel around me as I head across my apartment. I open the door a crack and peek through.
“Lucas?” I blink up at Lucas’s handsome face, wondering if I’m imagining him standing in my doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to take care of you.” He gently pushes the door open, then steps inside.
My eyes follow him as he walks through my apartment and into the kitchen. He’s carrying three fabric bags. It takes more than a few seconds for my brain to catch up and for me to get out a “What?”
He drops the bags on the counter, then comes back toward me and takes the still-open door from my grasp, shutting it. “I’m here to take care of you.” His eyes meet mine before slowly moving down my body. “Maybe you should go get something on. You’re sick and should be dressed warmly.”
My mouth opens and closes with a hundred questions before I can get out one word again. “What?”
“Get something on, baby.” He takes my elbow and propels me toward my bedroom.
I know I should feel at least a little bit awkward that I’m only in a towel, but I honestly don’t have the energy. I definitely don’t have the energy to put my foot down and demand an explanation for his showing up at my place and saying he’s here to take care of me.
“Where is Madeline?”
“With my brother and his wife. They got a pizza and are hanging out, watching a movie.”
“Oh.” I think I remember him texting me that.
“Have you eaten?” He stops at my bedroom door.
My stomach recoils at the idea of putting anything inside it.
“All right, no food,” he says softly, reading my expression. “But you should try to drink something. Get dressed. I’ll make you some peppermint tea. That’ll help with the nausea.”
He pulls the door closed, and I stare at it for a long time, trying to figure out why my chest feels so heavy and why my nose is stinging like I’m about to cry. It takes me a few minutes to realize it’s because Tom never took care of me when I was sick. Even when I was going through round after round of fertility treatments, he didn’t take care of me. He didn’t hold my hand when I had to give myself a shot. He didn’t tell me everything would be okay when I cried my eyes out because of the stress and the hormones they were putting into my body. Not once in all the years we were together did he ever offer to take care of me.
“You are not going to cry,” I tell myself as I pull in a deep breath through my nose to fight back the tears filling my eyes. Then I pull in another one, and another. Only once I know I’m okay do I get dressed.
I pull on a pair of light-pink, wide-leg sleep pants with tiny purple flowers on them and a matching tank. I put on a long sweater. I pull up my hair in a messy bun, then open the door to my bedroom. I spot Lucas in the kitchen, emptying the shopping bags he brought with him. His eyes find me and soften around the edges.