10. Gavin
GAVIN
Violet sits on the edge of my bed while I change into a clean T-shirt. Her gaze darts around the room.
“I’m sorry your date left.”
“It’s fine.” I take a seat beside her. Heat radiates off her body. I hold the back of my hand up to her forehead. “I think you have a fever.”
She moves away from my touch. “It’s food poisoning.”
“Are you sure?”
“The delivery guy was mad he had to park so far away. He did something to the food to get back at me.”
Now I understand why she blames me for this. “I don’t think the delivery guy did this.”
She moans.
“You need to rest. Do you want to hang here for a bit?”
“Why are you being so nice to me? I just yelled at you, scared off your date, and then threw up on your favorite shirt.”
“You remembered my favorite shirt?”
“Probably the fever.” Her brows draw together, and pain scrunches up her features. “I want to go home.”
“Can I call someone for you?” I move to grab my phone from the desk.
“They already left. Everyone left.”
Which brings up a good question, why then is Violet still in Valley?
I slide my phone into my front pocket. “I’ll walk you.”
“Okay.” She slumps over and rests her head on my shoulder, and her eyes fall closed.
I lift her into my arms. Her not protesting tells me everything I need to know about how awful she feels.
She doesn’t speak, or open her eyes, as I carry her home. The living room, which I’ve only ever seen from the doorway, is a disaster. I set her down and then follow her inside, stepping over fabric and sketch pads.
“Thanks.” Her voice is so quiet I barely hear it.
“Can I get you anything?”
She lies on the couch and curls up into a ball, holding her stomach. “No. I just want to lie here until I die.”
“Don’t die on me. Then who would I fight with?”
“I’m sure you piss off lots of people on any given day. Pick one.”
That isn’t actually true. I get along with almost everyone. Sure, I’ve gotten into a few squabbles in my day—mostly on the basketball court, but otherwise, I’m a chill, friendly guy.
“There’s no one I’d rather fight with than you, Vi.”
“I’m good. Thanks for walking me home.”
“Carrying you home, you mean?”
“You carried me?” She shakes her head. “That can’t be right. I’d remember something like that.”
“I must have dreamed it then,” I say sarcastically.
She doesn’t respond, just curls up tighter. I find a blanket tossed over the arm of a chair and cover her with it, then pick up the discarded food sitting in the middle of the floor. It smells fine, but I toss it just in case.
My pulse thrums quickly as I watch her. I think she dozed off. Her breathing is slow and steady, and she hasn’t moved. Hopefully sleep will help. I glance at the door then back at her. I should go, but…
Before I can reconsider, I find the remote and take a seat on the opposite end of the couch, hitting play on a paused movie. I smile when I realize it’s some historical flick. So very Violet.
She made me watch one of these with her once, before she hated my guts.
Her eyes lit up and she couldn’t resist quoting her favorite lines and interrupting to point out costumes she loved.
I’m more of an action movie guy myself (give me Jason Statham and a fast car and I’m good), but that night was one of my favorite movie nights ever.
I’d never met someone like Violet before. From the very beginning she was just herself. Growing up with a famous dad, people (especially girls) sometimes get it in their head that being with me somehow makes them more important. I don’t get it, but it’s happened too many times to brush it off.
Those people have become easy to spot. They want to know all about my dad, what it was like growing up and going to games, and they beg me to tell them about all the other celebrities I’ve met.
And the real giveaway, they don’t share anything about themselves, or if they do, they’re the biggest basketball fan ever and want to prove it with game stats and anecdotes about my father.
When I told Violet who my dad was, she shrugged and said, “That’s cool, but I’ve never heard of him.” That was that. She liked me, and I didn’t realize how rare that was until then.
I watch the rest of the movie. Violet doesn’t wake up or move, except to kick off the blanket.
When I try to place it back over her, she groans. “Too hot.”
I take a better look at her. She’s sweating and her cheeks are rosy. Leaning closer, I rest the back of my hand on her forehead.
She definitely has a fever. I find the bathroom downstairs and look in the cabinet for a thermometer or medicine but come up empty.
Instead, I call my mom. She answers on the first ring.
“Gavin?”
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Is everything okay? It’s after one in the morning here.”
Shit. “Sorry, I forgot about the time difference.”
“It’s okay. I was awake anyway. What’s going on?”
“I’m with a friend and she’s sick. I don’t know if it’s food poisoning or the flu, and I’m not sure what to do.”
She’s quiet a beat, and I pull the phone away from my ear to check that she’s still there.
“Mom?”
“How high is the fever and how long has she had it?”
“A couple of hours, I think, and I’m not sure. I can’t find a thermometer. She’s sleeping now.”
“You could try a cold compress on her forehead or a lukewarm bath, but if she’s sleeping then that’s probably the best thing. Make sure she drinks plenty of water when she does wake up.”
“Thanks.” I run a hand over my hair. “Anything else to look out for?”
“You sound worried. Who is she?”
“Can you save the interrogation?”
She laughs lightly. “Low-grade fevers are nothing to worry about. Rest is probably all she needs. Tylenol or Motrin if she’s achy.”
“Thank you.” I blow out a breath. Violet goes into a coughing fit and my chest tightens with every hacking sound that comes out of her. “I better go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
The coughing ends as I hang up, and Violet turns over on her back. I feel like I should be doing something. Just sitting here and watching her suffer is awful. Even in sleep, her face is pinched up in pain.
Something I hadn’t thought to ask before I hung up with my mom—what the hell constitutes low-grade?
What if Violet’s is too high? I google fever concerns and the general consensus is death if it’s too high, which sends me into a tailspin.
I glance at the stairway. She might murder me if she wakes up and thinks I’m snooping around.
“Fuck it.” I race upstairs and find the second floor bathroom and, thankfully, a thermometer and Tylenol.
I take it back down to the living room and rouse Violet.
She murmurs something I can’t understand.
“I want to take your temperature and then you can go back to sleep.”
I press the contraption to her forehead and press the button. It beeps several times. Violet’s lashes flutter open, and those dark brown eyes lock on mine. “You’re still here.”
A number flashes on the small screen.
“One hundred and two,” I say. “You are definitely sick.”
“What gave me away?”
“Sick, but you haven’t lost your dry humor.”
Her gaze shifts to the TV. “Is it over?”
“Yeah. You want me to put it back on?”
“No. I’m working through a list. Least favorites first, so I don’t mind that I slept through it.” Her eyes close again. “Seriously, why are you still here? I don’t need you to nurse me to health. Go back to your party and your half-naked girl. I feel better.”
She starts coughing again, this time until her eyes start to water.
I grab her a glass of water and shake out two Tylenol. “You don’t sound better. In fact, you sound worse.”
She doesn’t answer but takes the medicine and washes it down with water. Glass in hand, her body tilts toward me, and in slow motion, she drops her head into my lap. I quickly rescue the glass before it ends up all over her or me, or both of us.
“Is this you hoping to get me sick as payback?” I ask, as a lump lodges in my throat.
“Oh no.” She shoots upright, her face instantly paling, and squeezes her eyes shut. “Woah. I moved too fast. I’m sorry I just got all up on you. I just sort of started falling and decided not to fight it.”
“I was kidding, Vi. You threw up on me, so I think it’s too late to worry about keeping your germs from me.”
I wrap an arm around her and guide her back down, so her head rests on my chest. She’s stiff, bracing most of her weight off me before she finally gives in.
“This is just a temporary truce,” she says as she nuzzles into me.
My brain might know this is temporary, but my heart is punching to get out of my chest. It’s belonged to her since the first time I met her.