“You’re shivering.”
“The door is open and I’m cold.”
“Go in the house,” she said, moving toward him. “I mean it. Go. I’m behind you but not close enough.”
He kept moving backwards so there was a distance between them, then he went into the living room and she marched into the kitchen and poured him some of the Gatorade in a glass.
She walked into the living room, but he was moving backwards again.
“I don’t want you to get sick.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I worry. God, I feel like I got hit by a truck, then a steamroller finished the job.”
“I can’t leave you like this,” she said. “Go back to bed and I’ll stay down here. I mean it, Brennan. You really look bad. Think of Becca if anything happened to you.”
He held her stare, which she was positive wasn’t an easy feat with how glossy his eyes were. She wasn’t sure he was focusing on her.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“Go upstairs to your room. I’ll stay ten feet behind you and bring up the glass and bottle for more, but you need to drink some of it. I’ll watch TV down here if you’re fine with it.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I don’t even have the energy to argue.”
“Then don’t. Go. Yell for me or text me if you need anything.”
He turned and went up the stairs, holding the railing as he slowly walked.
Once she knew he had enough time to be in bed, she went up and set everything by his bed. Huddled under the covers, he was almost shaking.
“I’m so cold.”
She left the room and went to the bathroom, found a thermometer and returned to his room, pointing it at his head.
It was a hundred and two point two. “When was the last time you took something for your fever?”
“Three hours ago. Maybe four. I don’t know. I’m not sure what time it is. I took it at one.”
“It’s almost six. You can have more.”
She went back to the bathroom and shook out two Motrin, gave them to him and made sure he got them down, then tucked him in and found another blanket in a hall closet to put on him.
There was no way in hell she was leaving him alone looking like that. Even if it meant she contracted it too.
17
MORE THAN ENOUGH
His swollen tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
The taste he experienced was a mixture of what he’d thought rotten eggs swimming in spoiled milk would produce.
His throat did an involuntary constriction and he thought for sure he’d be dashing for the toilet again.
But Brennan realized it was the remnants of his barfing jag rather than his stomach revolting.
He opened his eyes and saw that he was in his gray sweats only, no shirt, the covers thrown half across the bed and on the floor. More covers than he remembered he had on his bed.
