Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
CONNOR
“Donnie! I’m home!” I drop my bag by the foot of the stairs and head to the kitchen to find him.
He was nervous this morning before I left for work, on edge about seeing Roger’s parents and visiting the cemetery. I pushed him against the counter and got down on my knees in the kitchen to give him a breakfast blowjob before rushing out the door.
He messaged in the late afternoon to tell me he was heading home from the cemetery, so he should be in full-scale cooking mode by now. But there’s no one in the kitchen. “Donnie?”
I spin around and poke my head down the stairs into the basement. Nothing. He’s not in my bedroom. I peek quickly into Roger’s office, just in case. Nope. Not there either.
I hesitate before climbing the stairs to the third floor. I’ve only been up there once or twice. I kinda think of it as Donnie’s domain. Donnie and Roger’s domain. Plus, we don’t really have a reason to sleep in his bed when mine is usually closer.
“Donnie?” I call up. No response.
Maybe he went back out? Maybe he’s taking a nap. But no, something feels off, and I don’t like it. I climb the steps. The door to the bedroom is closed, so I give it a gentle knock before cracking it open.
There’s a Donnie-shaped lump on the bed and my heart clenches at the sight. The visit probably took a lot out of him. He did warn me that might happen. But he does look awfully still…
I slip inside, close the door behind me with a snick, and tiptoe up to the bed. I’m just going to check that he’s okay. Maybe crawl in beside him and hold him until he wakes up. I peer over the blankets and see his face.
Donnie is not okay.
His eyes are sunken in and his skin is pale with bright red splotches on his cheeks. His hair is soaked through with sweat and he’s shivering despite the thick covers he’s under. I reach for his forehead and I can feel the heat radiating off him before my hand even makes contact.
“Shit.”
Donnie stirs at my touch, groaning and grimacing, but he doesn’t open his eyes.
“Donnie?” My heart races and my brain starts throwing out worst-case scenarios. Do I need to call for an ambulance and go with him to the hospital? What if it’s something more serious than a cold or the flu?
“Shit, shit, shit.”
I fumble for my phone and step on something wet. It looks like the clothes Donnie was wearing this morning, drenched and in a pile on the floor. What the—whatever. I’ll deal with it later.
I stare at my phone. What do I do? What do I do?
I pull up the phone number of the only person I can think of to call. “Come on, come on. Pick up, pick up.”
“Hello?”
“Mom, what do I do if someone has a fever?” I pace away from the bed, one hand tugging at my hair, the slight pain keeping me from spinning completely out of control.
“What? Who has a fever? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s not me.”
“Is it Miles? Wyatt?”
I drop into the winged back armchair by the window and lean forward to brace my elbows on my knees. “No, Mom, it’s not either of them,” I say, gritting my teeth. “You don’t know him, okay? Just tell me what to do when someone has a fever!”
“There’s no need to use that tone of voice with me, young man.”
“Mom!” I almost yell.
She huffs a sigh. “How high is his temperature?”
I rush back to Donnie’s side and press my hand to his forehead. “I don’t know. It’s high.”
I can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “How high? Do you have a thermometer?”
“No, I don’t.” But maybe Donnie does. “Hold on, lemme see if I can find one.”
I throw open Donnie’s door and hesitate. Where do people keep thermometers? Bathrooms? I hurry down the hall to Donnie’s.
“Gimme a sec, I’m looking.” I set my phone down on the counter and start rummaging through the medicine cabinet. Razor, cologne, face wash, moisturizer. No thermometer.
“Come on, Donnie, where’s your thermometer?
Where would you keep a thermometer?” I drop down to check the cabinet under the sink.
In the corner is a white box with a big red cross on it.
I toss out stacks of band-aids and gauze and wipes before I find the digital thermometer at the bottom.
I press the on button—please work, please work—and the old-school digital display flickers to life. “Thank-fucking-god.”
I pick up the phone again. “Mom? I found it.”
“There’s no need to swear, Connor.”
“Oh my god, Mom, please.”
“Please, what? Go take his temperature.”
Donnie is in the exact same position I left him in, curled up on his side, face half buried in a pillow. I can’t just jab the thing into his mouth, can I? “He’s asleep. What do I do?”
“You can wake him up,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I cringe. “Are you sure? Shouldn’t I let him rest?”
“Fine, then don’t wake him up.”
“But then, how do I know what his temperature is?” My voice is squeaky, my skin is prickly, and my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. If Donnie is really sick, if he needs to go to the hospital…
I don’t know how to do any of that stuff.
I don’t know how to take care of him the way he took care of me.
“Connor, breathe. It’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know that? You don’t know that.”
“Connor, stop it.” Her voice is steely and sharp.
I snap my mouth shut.
“You’re going to let him rest and when he wakes up, you’ll take his temperature. What’s his name?”
“Huh?” What does Donnie’s name have to do with his temperature?
“The person who’s sick. What is his name?”
“Uh, Donnie?” I don’t know why I said it like I wasn’t sure what it was.
“Donnie? That’s his name?”
“Yes, Donnie.”
“Okay, if Donnie’s temperature is above one-hundred-and-four, then take him to the hospital.”
“Wait, wait. I need to write this down.” I switch her to speaker phone and pull up my notes app. “When should I take him to the hospital?”
“If his temperature is above one-hundred-and-four.”
“And how do I get him there?”
There’s a beat of silence before she speaks, voice resigned. “Don’t worry about that right now.”
“Okay, okay, I can do that. What else?”
“You can give him acetaminophen or ibuprofen. Just follow the instructions on the bottle.”
“Instructions on the bottle, okay.” My fingers tremble as I try to type on my phone. Why won’t autocorrect work when I goddamn need it to work?
“If he’s sweating, he’ll need lots of fluids to make up for it.”
“He is. He’s sweating a lot.”
“You might need to help him shower, if he’s up for it. Then clean, dry clothes and clean, dry linens. Make sure he stays warm. Sometimes a cool towel on the forehead feels nice.”
“Shower. Clothes. Linens. Cool towel on forehead. Okay, anything else?”
“That’s it. If the fever doesn’t break within a couple days, you might need to take him to the hospital. But we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”
“Yeah, okay. Maybe it’ll break before then.”
“Connor, are you okay?” Her voice is softer now. She’s not asking about the fever.
I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling like an idiot. Twenty-fucking-six years old and calling my mommy because I’ve never taken care of someone with a fever before. Roger would’ve known what to do.
“Yeah, I think so.”
She sighs, sending a rush of air over the phone’s mic. “All right, well, call me again if you need anything else.”
I nod. “Okay, I will. Thanks, Mom.”
We hang up and I take a couple deep breaths. I need to calm the fuck down. Donnie needs me.
He isn’t dying. He probably just got caught in that freak rainstorm earlier. That would explain the pile of wet clothes on the floor. He’s going to be fine. And even if he gets worse, even if I have to take him to the hospital… one thing at a time. I have to focus on right now.
Mom said fluids, clean clothes, and clean linens.
I go downstairs and dig out the Gatorades Donnie always has stocked in the fridge.
If electrolytes are good for hydrating after a workout, they have to be good for hydrating after a fever, right?
Feels like the same principle to me. I line up the bottles on the nightstand and go to the walk-in closet.
I flick the light on and take a half-step back.
Damn, this walk-in closet is bigger than some New York apartments I’ve been in.
Clothes hang in neat rows. Shoes are on display in a column of shelves.
Bags line the shelves near the ceiling. One side of the closet has more athletic wear than any one person should own.
The other side is filled with suits. Expensive-looking suits.
Donnie said he still has a lot of Roger’s clothes. I didn’t realize that “a lot” means all of them. I move toward that side of the closet and run my hands along the shoulders of the jackets. The hangers are all evenly spaced out.
Roger feels bigger than life in my head.
Smart, charming, self-assured, sweet. He worked on Wall Street at a high-profile job that raked in piles of cash, so much that Donnie’s got more than enough to live off of now.
He hosted fancy dinner parties. He wore brand names that I’ve never even heard of.
He renovated old houses in New York until they looked like magazine spreads.
Me? I’m calling my mom because I got freaked out by a fever. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands, then run my fingers through my hair. It doesn’t feel nearly as good as when Donnie does it.
I need to pull myself together and be the adult that Donnie needs me to be.
Not just today, not just to nurse him back to health.
Roger left big shoes to fill, and I’m not saying I’ll ever be able to fill them completely, but he was someone Donnie could depend on.
He was a partner to Donnie. I need to be that—someone Donnie can depend on, someone he can partner with.
There’s a stack of linens and bedding in the corner and I grab a set. A quick check of the drawers reveals Donnie’s stash of PJs. I bring them all into the bedroom right as Donnie groans.
“Connor?”
I dump all the neatly folded fabric on the armchair and rush to his side. He’s flung the covers off, thrashing around with a grimace on his face.
“Hey, I’m here.”
He groans and rolls toward me, flinging his arm in my direction. His eyes are screwed shut. I don’t think he’s awake.
“It’s okay.”
I brush the damp hair off his forehead. “What’s okay?”
“Roger says it’s okay.”
My breath catches in my chest. What—did he—no, he’s dreaming. He’s definitely dreaming. He didn’t somehow read my mind, confer with his late husband, and then come back to reassure me that I don’t need to measure myself against Roger. We’re not in a movie. Donnie is not Whoopi Goldberg.
“Donnie, wake up.” I give him a little shake, but he rolls onto his other side.
His entire back is wet with sweat and so are the sheets he’s lying on. He shivers and doesn’t stop. I’ll have to wait until he wakes up to help him change, but in the meantime, I pull the covers over him and tuck them around his body.
Donnie sighs in his sleep. I lay down next to him, scooting in as close as I can with the blankets between us. I gently rest my hand on his side, measuring the rise and fall of his breathing, each one a sign that he’s going to be okay.
I wish I could’ve known Roger: the person Donnie fell in love with, the person he built a life with. Donnie wouldn’t be who he is today if it wasn’t for Roger. If it wasn’t for Roger, I wouldn’t have this chance to know Donnie, to live in this house, to love him.
My heart somersaults in my chest.
I love Donnie.
I take a breath and poke at the feeling inside me. I’m pretty sure it’s love. I’ve never felt it before, not like this. It has to be love, right?
I like how it feels. Big and strong, yet delicate and soft. I feel like I can conquer anything with it and I feel extremely vulnerable at the same time. It has to be love.
Donnie shifts toward me in his sleep. I arrange myself the best I can with all the blankets. It kinda feels like I’m hugging a furnace. There’s nowhere else I would rather be.