Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
CADEN
I hold open the car door for Isla.
She really looks pale, her lips only carrying the faintest blush, her skin clammy. I want to get her out of the sun as quickly as possible.
“Whose car is this?” she asks.
“Alistair’s,” I say.
“Of course,” she huffs. She wobbles as she goes to sit and my fingers ache to help her. The seat is quite low and she lets out an “oof” as she lands on it.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she growls. She has all the fury of an enraged kitten and I try not to think about how adorable she is as I get in the driver’s side.
I keep the windows down as we make our way back to Magnolia Bay. I hope the air cools her a bit. I sense her relax about halfway to her apartment, her face turning toward the open window, her eyes drifting closed. We need to get some Tylenol and water into her.
When I pull up to Magnolia’s Petals and park, she gets out of the Camaro and another dizzy spell seems to take her. She holds onto the door for support.
“Hey there,” I say, hurrying around to catch her arm. My hands feel too rough for her soft skin. “Do you need help getting upstairs?”
The angry kitten face is back. Isla is always the one doing the helping—she’s not used to being the one who needs help. “I can walk,” she says. I release her and as she turns, she wobbles again.
“Okay, up you go,” I say, sweeping her into my arms.
“Caden, stop it,” she says, pushing against my chest but the attempt is so feeble, I ignore it.
“I’m not about to let you faint walking up the stairs,” I say.
“I’m not going to faint,” Isla mumbles, but her eyelashes flutter.
“Isla, please.” Her name coats my mouth like honey, a bitter sweetness. “Let me help you.”
Isla tries to protest and instead lets out a wide yawn.
“Fine, you can carry me,” she says, and I chuckle.
I get her up the stairs to her apartment and as soon as we cross the threshold, I place her gently on her feet.
“Oh,” Isla gasps, clutching her stomach. “I think I’m gonna…” But before she finishes the sentence, she races into the bathroom. I hear her retching.
“Isla,” I say, hurrying over to stand by the doorway.
“Go away, Caden.” Another wave of retching.
“I’m not leaving you,” I say.
“This is gross,” she says between heaves. “You don’t want to see this.”
“Do you think I care?” I step into the bathroom and find her slumped over the toilet. I carefully kneel down and hold her hair back. Her skin is so hot. When she’s retched up everything in her stomach, I help her to her feet and she sags against me as I squirt some toothpaste on her toothbrush and hand it to her. She brushes and spits and I rinse the brush and put it back in the holder.
“Oh,” she moans, holding her head. “Oh, I feel awful.”
“Let’s get you into bed,” I say. I pick her up in my arms again, getting no protest this time. Her limbs are weak and she folds into a fetal position as I place her on her bed. I see a T-shirt and a pair of cotton sleep pants hanging out of one drawer of her dresser and grab them.
“Here,” I say, placing them next to her. “I’m going to get you some medicine.”
I leave her in privacy and glance around her apartment which is remarkably unchanged since the last time I was here. The same squashy couch against one wall, the little table by the window. The tiny fridge. The Japanese screens that hide her bed. I search through her cabinets and find a glass and fill it with water. I head back to the bathroom and check her medicine cabinet, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol and tipping two pills into my palm.
When I come back behind the screen, Isla is in the tee and pants, curled up on her side, her hair splayed across the pillow. A light sheen of sweat dews over her skin.
“Here,” I say, sitting beside her and gently helping her into enough of a sitting position to swallow the pills. “Drink a little bit more,” I suggest, surprised and pleased when she listens to me. Then she sags back against the pillows.
“Okay. I’m in bed. You can go now.” Her words are faintly slurred, her eyes unfocused.
“Not a chance,” I say. “Where’s your phone?”
She frowns at me, her nose wrinkling. “Why d’you want my phone?”
“I was going to text Luke,” I say. “He should know you’re not well.”
Her eyes narrow into little slits. “That’s suspiciously nice of you.”
A faint chuckle escapes my throat. “That’s me. Mr. Suspiciously Nice.”
Her phone is beneath a fold of the comforter, and it takes her a few tries to unlock it.
“You’re not texting my fiancé,” she says, as I take the phone from her. “I can…” Her voice trails off.
“You need to rest. I’m just going to tell him you’re sick and he should come home,” I say.
“No,” Isla moans. “Don’t wanna interrupt…he’s at a bachelor…”
“Isla, you’ve got a fever, you’re throwing up, and you’re lightheaded,” I say. “I’m sure Luke will want to be here with you. Who cares about some dumb bachelor party?”
I find Luke’s text thread and try to ignore the sting at their previous exchange:
Have fun at the party!
Thanks babe! Love you.
Isla’s eyes have slipped closed, her breathing slow and even. I ponder what exactly to say. This is weird. I don’t want to be texting Luke Richards.
But I care about Isla more than I dislike him.
Hi Luke, this is Caden Everton. Isla got really sick at the beach and I took her home. Thought you should know.
That last line seems a little harsh so I delete it.
She’s resting now but she might need to see a doctor.
I press my hand to her forehead and she moans. Her skin is on fire. That plus the vomiting, plus the fainting… What if she’s got pneumonia? Or RSV? Or some even worse virus?
I hit send, expecting to hear back from Luke quickly. Several minutes pass with no response. Maybe he’s partying too hard to look at his phone.
Fuck it. I call the Thorn and get her dad.
“The Thorn and Rose, Tom speaking.”
“Hi Tom, it’s Caden Everton,” I say. It sounds busy in the background. “I was at the beach with Isla and she got really sick. Not sure if it’s the flu or something worse. Do you guys have a doctor who could come look at her?”
“Our GP doesn’t make house calls,” Tom says. “Is she all right? What are her symptoms?”
I tell him, silently berating myself for assuming her doctor makes house calls. How very Everton of me to think that.
“I would say bring her here, but my wife is immune compromised,” Tom says, sounding torn.
“Right,” I say. “No problem. Look, I’ll call my family’s doctor. I’m sure he can get out here today and take a look at her.”
“Really?” Tom says.
“Of course,” I say. “It’s no trouble at all.”
“I—thank you, Caden. That’s very kind.”
“I’ll keep you posted,” I promise him, then hang up.
I call Daisy first, but her phone goes to voicemail. Same with Von. Finn picks up, but all I hear is, “I’m in a meeting,” before the line goes dead. I call Al.
“Hey!” he says. I can barely hear him through the pounding of bass in the background and the shriek of women. Then I hear splashing.
“Where are you?” I say.
“What?”
I glance at Isla—her lips have parted as she sleeps, one hand curled against her chest.
“Where are you?” I say louder.
“Beach party in the Hamptons, dude!” Alistair says. There’s more shrieking and splashing. “What’s up?”
“I need the number for Dad’s on call doctor,” I say.
“What?”
“Dad’s doctor!” I shout. Isla twitches but doesn’t wake.
“Who’s a proctor?” Alistair says as the music in the background increases in pitch.
“Never mind,” I growl, hanging up.
There’s only one option left. I suppress my groan and call my father’s number.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Caden?” he says. He sounds surprised. Which I guess makes sense since I haven’t called him in five years.
“Dad, I need the number of our doctor, the one who makes house calls,” I say without preamble. “What’s his name…Dr. Wilkins, right?”
“What’s happened? Are you all right?” He sounds concerned, which is both shocking and a little bit comforting. I don’t think I’ve ever known my father to worry over me. That was Mom’s domain.
“I’m fine. It’s Isla Davenport.” I wonder if he even remembers who Isla is. “She’s really sick. I’m worried.”
There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. I feel the anger grow in my chest, the tension threatening to choke me. I’m about to hang up and figure something else out when he speaks again.
“Where are you?”
“I’m at her apartment, above Magnolia’s Petals. Look, Dad, if you’re not going to help?—”
“I’m calling Dr. Wilkins now. He should be there shortly.”
Then he hangs up.
Half an hour later, there’s a knock on the door.
I’ve been putting a damp cool cloth on Isla’s forehead. She’s mumbling in her sleep, her fingers sometimes twitching. It feels like she’s getting even hotter.
I hurry to answer and see a familiar balding man in his early sixties standing on the doorstep in tennis shorts and a white polo, carrying a medical bag. Dr. Wilkins used to come to the house a lot when I was younger and one (or several) of us Everton kids was sick.
“Caden,” Dr. Wilkins says with a warm smile. “It’s been a long time. Where’s the patient?”
“In here,” I say, stepping back so he can enter the apartment.
He hurries behind the screens and I follow him. He sets his bag on the nightstand and opens it, then removes the cloth and presses the back of his hand to Isla’s forehead.
“Well, that’s a quite fever all right,” he says. Isla moans and her eyelashes flutter. “My dear girl, can you open your mouth for me? That’s it.” He tucks a thermometer under her tongue then wraps a cuff around her arm. “Blood pressure is a little low,” he says.
Dr. Wilkins takes the thermometer out and frowns. “103.3,” he says. “Any other symptoms?”
“She threw up when we got here,” I say. “And she was dizzy. I had to carry her upstairs.”
“I would say she’s got an exceptionally bad case of the flu,” the doctor says. “There’s a strain going around this summer that’s particularly nasty. I had a couple of patients hospitalized with it.”
“Hospitalized?” I cry.
“They were older,” he reassures me. “With weakened immune systems. I think Isla should recover easily but you’ll need to monitor her for the next forty-eight hours. Make sure she gets plenty of fluids. Here.” He takes a bottle of pills from his bag. “Extra strength Tylenol. Two pills every four hours. We want that fever to break. See if you can get her to eat some broth or crackers. Keep her strength up.” He hands me his business card. “If she gets worse, call me.”
“Thank you,” I say as he walks to the door. “Sorry to interrupt your tennis game.”
Dr. Wilkins smiles. “I was getting soundly beaten anyway.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be okay, son. Just keep an eye on her.”
“I will,” I promise.
He leaves and I press my forehead against the back of the door. A faint moan from Isla has me rushing back to her bedside.
“Caden,” she moans. Her eyes are closed again, her breath shallow. “Caden…”
“I’m here,” I say, sitting next to her. Her hand scrabbles at the air and I take it gently, wrapping both my hands around it. Her skin is hot and clammy.
“Don’t leave,” she murmurs.
“I won’t,” I promise her softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”