CHAPTER thirty-five #2
My head snaps up. "Wait—you're telling me you've been at the clinic this whole time?"
Sam gives the tiniest nod, duvet shifting with her breath.
I reach out and press the back of my hand to her forehead. Not burning up, but a bit warm and a little sweaty.
"How are you feeling now? Did the nurse give you some medicine?" My brain launches straight into Mother Hen Mode.
"...nurse... gave me Tylenol."
"Why didn't you text me? I could've picked you up. This is literally why we made the 911 code!"
She groans, trying to roll away from me. "I'm fine, Care. Just tired."
"Still," I insist, tugging the duvet straighter because fussing is all I know.
"You're like Zachy," she mutters, voice muffled by the pillow. "Both of you worry too much. That's why I didn't say anything."
"Gee, thanks," I deadpan, but she's already turning over, giving me her back like that's the end of discussion.
"Seriously, Care... I'm good. Just need sleep."
I blow out a breath, hands up in surrender. "Fine. But if you need anything, let me know, okay?"
She gives a tiny nod, still not saying a word.
And that's my cue.
I whisper a soft "Goodnight," flip off the lights, and crawl back into my own bed.
The thunder outside is still throwing its tantrum, shaking the walls like we're living inside a subwoofer. But for once, I don't care. My brain's too busy worrying about Sam to obsess over the storm.
I glance at Sam's side of the room again — she's out cold, hasn't twitched in half an hour.
Fine. If she's asleep, I should be too.
Except my phone lights up.
ZACH
Still up?
I could just ignore it.
But apparently my thumbs didn't get the memo, because next thing I know I'm typing:
ME
Yes.
ME
But going to sleep now.
ZACH
Don't...
ZACH
Let's chat for a bit.
I stare at his text, chewing my lip. I should say no. Say it's late, roll over, and sleep like a normal human.
But then again... what's the harm in texting back? It's just words on a screen. Totally harmless.
Nope. Bad idea. Shut it down. Hit the pillow and pretend I never saw it.
But my brain won't stop poking holes in my resolve.
If I don't reply, he'll probably just text again anyway. Or worse — show up outside my door like some lovesick idiot with another latte. Do I really want that happening at midnight?
Exactly. Texting is damage control. Preventive measures. Totally responsible.
God, listen to me. I sound like I'm justifying buying another pair of shoes I don't need.
I groan, flopping onto my stomach. This is ridiculous. Half of me's screaming "don't do it," the other half's already scrolling the keyboard.
And, surprise surprise... the half with faster thumbs always wins.
ME
What's up?
ZACH
It's been pouring outside ?????? Just wanted to check if you're okay.
ME
All good here.
Lies! The annoying part of my brain screams.
ZACH
I'm okay too, btw. In case you wanted to ask ??
ME
What do you want, Zach?
ZACH
Come to my game Friday.
ME
Can't. Busy.
ZACH
Saturday then?
ME
Nope. I go home to Naples every weekend. Gotta check in on my mom.
ZACH
Right... so Friday then?
ME
Told you. Busy Friday.
And that one's not even a lie. Ballet rehearsal got scheduled at the exact same time as his game. Even if I wanted to go, I literally can't.
When his reply doesn't come, guilt creeps in like an uninvited guest.
Great. Now he probably thinks I'm just blowing him off on purpose. That I'm "busy" because I don't want to see him.
My thumbs hover over the screen. I should explain. Tell him that rehearsal's scheduled right on top of his game.
But then my brain kicks me in the shins.
Nope. Don't you dare. You don't owe him an excuse, Care. This isn't customer service. You're not required to file a written statement every time you say no.
Still, the urge is there.
Like an itch I can't scratch. Because God forbid he thinks I don't care at all. Ugh.
I flop onto my side, glaring at my phone like it's personally responsible for this mess.
Half of me's chanting, Just text him, clear it up. What's the harm?
The other half's screaming, Stop it! You're literally about to turn into that girl again — the one who explained every little thing so he wouldn't get upset or misinterpret. That girl is retired. Let her rest.
I groan into my pillow. Why am I like this? It's a simple "no," not a breakup letter.
Just as I'm about to put my phone down, the dreaded three dots pop up. My stupid heart does a little jump of relief — pathetic, I know.
ZACH
Sorry, I didn't reply right away. Are you still there?
ZACH
Mom called to check in because Sam didn't answer any of her texts.
ZACH
She hasn't responded to my messages either and I didn't see her all day. Is Sam there with you?
I glance over. Sam hasn't budged — still curled on her side, duvet practically swallowing her whole.
ME
She's asleep. She came home almost an hour ago.
ME
Said she wasn't feeling good earlier and slept at the clinic for a bit.
ZACH
I'm coming over...
ME
You don't have to, Zach. I've got her.
ME
And it's still pouring outside.
No reply.
Shit.
I can already picture him grabbing his keys anyway, barreling through the rain like some overprotective maniac. That's just Zach. He can't not rush to Sam's side the second she so much as sneezes. Sweet, sure — smothering, if you ask Sam.
But he's been like this forever.
She was sick all the time as a kid, and after their dad died? Yeah, it only got worse. Zach's paranoia over her health dialed itself up to eleven and never really came back down.
About fifteen minutes later, a knock rattles against the door. My heart leaps—I already know who it is.
I shove my blanket back and hurry across the room, yanking the door open.
And there he is. Zach.
Soaked through, rain still dripping from the ends of his hair, his black leather jacket clinging to his broad shoulders.
His shirt's plastered to his chest, the fabric darker from the storm. Drops slide down his temple, rolling along his jaw before falling to the floor.
"Hey..." His voice comes out low, rough—like he hadn't used it in hours, or maybe the storm itself scraped it raw.
"Zach..." I step aside, widening the door for him to come in.
He strides past me, leaving a wet trail across the floor. In his hand, a white Walgreens bag swings, the plastic crinkling with every step.
"Where is she?"
"In her bed. Sleeping."
He doesn't waste another word. Moves straight to Sam's corner, crouches down beside her bed. He sets the bag carefully on the floor, wipes his damp palms on his jeans, then leans in.
"Hey, angel..." His hand brushes over her hair, gentle and careful.
The worry etched across his face is almost painful to look at.
Sam stirs, her lashes fluttering before her squinted eyes focus on him. "Zachyyy?" Her voice is scratchy, groggy. She rubs her eyes like she can't believe he's really here.
From where I stand, I catch the soft curve of his mouth—relief and love threaded through every line. "Hey... how are you feeling? Caroline said you weren't well earlier."
Sam groans, tilts her head toward me, and even half-asleep, she manages to scowl like she's blaming me for snitching. I mouth back, sorry.
She turns to her brother, mutters, "I'm good now. Took Tylenol."
Zach doesn't look convinced. He leans in closer, pressing the back of his hand to her forehead, his brows knitting tight. "You're still a little warm."
Sam makes a face, wriggling under the duvet like she can shake his worry off.
"I'm fine, Zachy. Really. Just need to sleep it off."
That should've been enough for most people.
But Zach? No chance.
He pulls the Walgreens bag open and starts unloading: a few bottles of watermelon Gatorade, more Tylenol, a strip of cooling fever patches, plain crackers, her favorite watermelon Sour Patch Kids, even a box of tissues.
"You should eat something first," he murmurs, holding the crackers out.
Sam shakes her head weakly. "Not hungry."
He sighs but doesn't push it, handing her the pill and Gatorade instead. She takes it without fuss, then sinks back into her pillow. Within minutes, her breathing evens out, already asleep again.
Zach stays crouched there a little longer, watching her with that same expression I've seen on him many times—like the whole world could fall apart, but as long as Sam's okay, he'll survive.
I slip back toward my bed, grab one of my clean towels, and hold it out to him.
"Here. Take this. And maybe lose the jacket before you end up catching something." I say, trying to keep my tone casual.
His mouth quirks—soft, grateful—as he takes it from me.
"Thanks." He disappears into the en suite bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.
The second he's out of sight, I snag his dripping leather jacket from where he left it. It's heavy and damp, so I fluff it out with both hands before draping it over the back of a chair, blotting the worst of the wet spots.
I dig through my closet, trying to find something—anything—that might actually fit Zach's obnoxiously broad frame. Yeah, good luck with that.
If I still had his old high school jerseys, maybe.
Back then, I used to buy them in the exact same size he wore. Why? Because somehow, in my head, drowning in all that fabric felt like being wrapped up in him. Like some twisted substitute for the real thing.
Don't ask. I know—it's pathetic.
At the time, it made perfect sense. Now? Not so much. Whatever.
My eyes light up when they land on something buried toward the back. A navy jersey, folded neat and familiar. NYU Violets. Number 82. Wright stitched across the back.
I don't even know why I brought it here, but in this moment, I'm almost glad I did. Almost. Because handing it to Zach? Might just be the dumbest idea of my life.
Sure enough, when he comes back out—hair damp, towel draped around his neck, his shirt still clinging damply to him—his eyes lock on the jersey in my hands.
His face freezes, then hardens like the damn thing just kicked his puppy.
"No." His voice is sharp, firm.