Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hailey
I wake up still in the clothes I flew here in—leggings and an oversized T-shirt—my mouth sticky and tasting awful.
The sun filters through the cream colored curtains covering the window.
I’m gonna have to get some light blocking curtains if I’m going to live here.
My head aches, and my sinuses feel full of lead.
The tickle I felt in my throat last night now has me coughing repeatedly.
And I have to pee really bad. And even if I can’t stop coughing, I have to brush my teeth, because god, my mouth is gross.
What did I have last night?
Oh, right. Nothing. I passed out on the bed. Which is why I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes. There’s a fuzzy gray blanket covering me, and I sit up, clutching my head until the room stops sloshing around, furrowing my brow as I examine the blanket.
I remember unpacking. And I remember trying to decide what to do next.
Then I sat down and looked at my phone, wondering if I should text my parents that I’m in Seattle.
Instead, I texted a couple of friends that I made it safely.
Then I lay down, more out of instinct than from a conscious decision. And that’s the last thing I remember.
This gray blanket wasn’t here, which means Jason must’ve come in and put it on me since I was sleeping on top of the quilt on the bed.
That’s really sweet, actually.
Another coughing fit takes hold, and I lurch to my feet, the room seeming to lurch too.
I steady myself on the desk, then the wall, grappling with the doorknob because if I don’t get to the bathroom now, I’m going to pee my pants.
And as sweet and caring as Jason is, I don’t want to have to deal with that level of cleanup or explanation in my first twenty-four hours at his house.
I make it to the toilet and nearly sigh in relief, but it’s hijacked by more coughing. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I mean, I know I barely slept before I left and spent the day on a plane, but surely that can’t be responsible for this. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
I had a little bit of a cold last week, but I thought I was getting better. It was really just a runny nose. Then I was congested. But not like this. This is so much worse. It doesn’t seem like one night of poor sleep and an airplane trip should make me feel this terrible.
Groaning, I finish in the bathroom, slurping water from my hand and then blowing my nose before grabbing the small box of tissues from the corner of the vanity to take to my room with me.
I didn’t notice any in there before. If there are some, oh well.
The way I feel, I’ll likely get through this box in no time, so it’ll just save me the trouble of having to get more later.
I drag myself back across the hall—the room feels more stable and less like trying to walk across a moving Tilt-A-Whirl—and stand in front of the bed. My mouth still feels gross, but not as bad since I drank some water. Do I brush my teeth?
Another coughing fit has me shaking my head. I’ll do that later. I pluck at my shirt, wrinkling my nose. I don’t want to stay in these clothes any longer.
I flip open my suitcase and stare blankly at the empty interior before remembering I unpacked everything. I pull out clean undies, a T-shirt, and a pair of soft sleep shorts to change into, groaning with relief at getting my bra off.
It takes me a few tries and some whimpering to get the quilt and sheet pulled back on the bed—it’s tucked in tight.
Does Jason moonlight as a drill sergeant and need to keep his bed-making skills in top shape?
But I finally manage to get them back and climb back in, sighing at the feeling of the cool, clean sheets on my skin.
And then I start shivering almost immediately.
Dammit, why do these sheets feel so cold?
I was warm a minute ago. Changing into shorts was supposed to be good.
Pulling the quilt and the fuzzy blanket up under my chin, I curl into a ball and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to feel warm again as I shiver a few times.
Soon the blankets start doing their job, and I relax a little, blinking my eyes open and coughing some more.
I’m still chilly, but not shivering at least.
Reaching for my phone, I check the time. It’s a little after seven, which means it’s … a little after nine in Wisconsin.
I don’t know what time it was when I fell asleep last night, but I have to have been in bed for at least twelve hours, maybe longer. Why am I still so exhausted? How did I go from feeling tired but okay to this in one night? Like, how is that even possible?
A few minutes after I climb into bed, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” I croak. Clearing my throat just produces another coughing fit, which prevents me from trying again.
Jason pokes his head in, concern knitting his brows together. “You sound awful.”
“I feel awful.” My voice is slightly less croaky, but that’s the best that can be said about it.
He frowns. “I’m sorry. What a sucky way to start off a new adventure.
I was going to go for a run, but do you need anything before I go?
You didn’t eat dinner, so you must be hungry.
I can make you some eggs and toast really quick.
And get you some water. Or juice? I don’t have any on hand, but I can have some delivered. ”
“Water would be great, and, uh …” Looking him over, he’s clearly ready to leave for his run right now.
He has on athletic shorts and a Seattle Emeralds T-shirt with his phone strapped to his right bicep.
Now that he mentions food, I am hungry, which I’m taking as a good sign considering how I feel otherwise.
Eggs and toast sound good, but I don’t want to put him out.
He raises his eyebrows, obviously waiting for me to finish. “If you don’t want eggs, I have some protein bars, or I can order you in some French toast, or …” He spreads his hands in front of him, palms up. “Just name it, Hailey. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.”
“The eggs and toast sound really good. You sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to make you delay your run.”
Scoffing, he waves me off. “It’s not like I have any other plans today.
I was going to show you around, but that’s obviously postponed.
You want eggs? You got ‘em. Scrambled? Over easy? Over hard? Uh … what other ways do people make eggs? Poached? I don’t know how to do that, but I could Google it. ”
Laughing makes me cough some more, though this time I manage to get ahold of it sooner. That’s good, right? “Scrambled is perfect. Thank you.”
He drums a little rhythm on the doorjamb. “Scrambled eggs coming right up. I’ll come get you when they’re ready. Or would you rather eat in bed?”
“I’ll come out,” I croak. That last coughing fit stole my voice again, and I’m afraid to clear my throat because I don’t want to cough more.
Fucking hell. Why’d I have to get sick now?
I mean, I guess now’s better than when I have lessons to teach or gigs to play. But still … I feel bad showing up on Jason’s doorstep and then coughing all over him.
“Make sure you take your vitamins!” I call after him. I absolutely do not want to make him sick too. That would be the worst. What a way to say thanks—“Hey, thanks for letting me live with you!” Hack, cough, hack, hack. “Here’s the plague as a thank you gift!”
Hopefully with a day or two of rest, I’ll be better. Maybe I should just eat in my room, though. Less time with him is probably for the best.
About ten minutes later, he taps on my door again. “Your food’s ready. Do you want me to sit and chat with you while you eat it? Or do you mind if I head out for my run?”
“Did you cook just for me? You didn’t make yourself anything?”
He shrugs. “I prefer to eat after I run. I don’t like running on a full stomach.”
So, yeah. He cooked just for me. “Um, if you want to hang out, you can, but we should sit at opposite ends of the table if you do. And maybe open a window? I don’t want to get you sick. But if you’d rather just go for a run”—which I strongly suspect is the case—“I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Okay. I think I’ll head out, then. And if you need anything else, feel free to rummage. If there’s something you want or need that I don’t have, let me know, and I’ll get it. I left a pad of sticky notes and a pen out so you can start a list if you need to.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thank you.”
“Course,” he says, like it should be obvious that I can ask for anything and he’ll make it happen. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food then. There’s leftover steak and vegetables in the fridge from last night if you’re still hungry after the eggs.”
I cover my face with my hands. “Oh my god, you made me dinner, and I totally passed out.” Peeking through my fingers, I groan. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He shrugs. “You needed to sleep. And given”—he gestures up and down in my direction—“I’d say I made the right call. Go eat. I’ll be back in a while.”
And with that, he disappears.
I take a couple of minutes to get myself up and out of bed, pausing to let the room settle so I don’t have the Tilt-A-Whirl floor experience again. The congestion in my head seems to be moving in slow motion, like the insides of a lava lamp, every time I change position.
I’ve been sick like this before, so I know the drill. Water, rest, cough drops, honey, tea … pushing through it is always a bad idea, and for the first time since I was a little kid, I don’t have to.
Which is … weird. Nice, of course, but super weird.
Part of my brain is casting about, trying to figure out who I’m letting down by being sick. Who do I need to call? What can I cancel, and what do I have to do regardless?
But the answer to all of those is … no one and nothing.
The only one who needs to know I’m sick is Jason. And he knows.
Beyond that, I have no plans, no obligations, nothing that can’t wait until I’m better.
Sure, I’d planned on hitting the ground running, so to speak.
Figuring out when and where I can busk—my understanding is that the rain starts to pick up in September, so I won’t have a lot of time to make a few bucks that way before the weather makes that difficult.
But at least the winters here aren’t as harsh as back home.
I shipped my winter gear, of course, but from what I’ve read, it’s unlikely I’ll need it unless we go somewhere that gets colder.
Canada, maybe. Or the mountains. There are definitely a lot more mountains here than there are back home.
I make it to the dining table, shivering again from the cold tile under my bare feet.
The chairs are upholstered in a soft teal that pairs nicely with the dark wood of the table.
He has square dishes in a matte dark gray, like they’re handmade.
He put some cheese on top of the eggs, and it stretches out as I cut a bite, making me smile.
The whole-grain toast is buttered to perfection, even if it’s a little cold now after my dilly dallying.
I can’t stop smiling as I eat this delicious breakfast, even as I sniffle and cough through the whole thing.
After I finish, I take my plate to the sink and rinse it off, uncertain if I should put it in the dishwasher or what, so I just leave it in the sink. I’ll ask when he gets back. In fact …
I grab the pad of sticky notes and the Bic pen next to it, grinning at his lack of pretension.
It’s such a funny juxtaposition—fancy furnishings and dishware, but very basic and utilitarian yellow sticky notes and black crystal Bic pen.
While I wasn’t expecting an ostrich feather quill pen or a fountain pen or anything, I guess I would’ve expected something fancier than this—the kind of pen you’d find in any random office setting.
What do I do with dirty dishes? I write on the top sticky note.
Standing, I drift into the kitchen, eyeing the most likely places I’d think he’d store cough drops or honey. Or tea. The water situation is obvious, at least—there’s a dispenser in the very large and very expensive looking stainless steel refrigerator door.
With a shrug, I decide to just open all the cabinets to see what’s where. If I’m going to have water or coffee or tea or, well, anything, I need to know where the necessary dishes are too, after all.
By the time I open and close everything, the brief burst of energy I gained from breakfast is wearing off, and I still haven’t found any cough drops.
I did find a small bear of crystalized honey in the pantry and a few bags of Earl Grey tea.
I prefer herbal tea when I’m sick, though.
Cinnamon or lemon. Mint’s okay too, in a pinch.
Getting a spoon out of the drawer, I try to squeeze some honey onto it, but it won’t come out.
Sighing, I open the cap and stick it in the microwave, stopping every ten seconds until it’s warmed up enough I can get some.
After taking the honey, I go back to the sticky notes, peel off the top one, then write on the second: cough drops, cinnamon spice tea, honey. That’s all I can think of for now.
I refill my glass of water and take myself back to bed, exhaustion dragging at my steps the whole way.