Austin
THIRTY-SIX
My foot is like lead against the gas pedal, my heart pounding erratically behind my rib cage as I fly down the highway toward Paris’ house.
The brief conversation I had with a very worried Rowan told me little other than the basics of their day.
I was too frenzied to ask for details after he told me that she was currently lethargic and groaning in pain on the couch.
My only concern right now is getting to her and making sure she doesn’t need to go to the hospital.
I take the exit; my giant truck like a race car, hardly even slowing at the green light as I turn.
Thankfully, traffic is light for it being a Sunday evening, so I’m pulling into the driveway less than fifteen minutes after leaving the stadium.
I barely even have the vehicle in park before my feet are pounding against the pavement, my chest threatening to explode as I rush toward the front door.
It’s yanked open the moment I hit the steps, Rowan’s wide-eyed expression full of worry.
“She’s in the living room,” he says, his lower lip wobbling as he tries not to cry. I blow past him without a word, even though the little guy looks terrified. I’ll console him in a minute, but first, I need to know what’s going on.
Reaching her in seconds, my stomach twists as I take in the sight in front of me.
Paris is wearing an oversized T-shirt and black leggings, her white canvas shoes untied, but still on her feet.
She’s curled up against the couch cushions, her hands covering her eyes as quiet whimpers leave her dry, parted lips.
Her cheeks are somehow ashen and rosy at the same time, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat covering every exposed inch of her skin.
“When did this start?” I ask Rowan, who’s standing in the archway to the room looking like he’s seen a ghost. Rhys is right behind him, peeking out from behind his brother as though he thinks hiding will shield him from what’s going on.
I whip my head around in search of Lennon, but thanks to the video monitor that sits on the coffee table behind me, I’m relieved to find her sleeping soundly in her crib.
I focus my attention back on Rowan as he swallows, his voice trembling as he tells me what happened.
“We went shopping yesterday, but we had to leave early because she was getting a headache. She said she was feeling better this morning, so we tried again. She seemed okay until we sat down to eat. That’s when she started making weird faces like she was hurt, and when she rubbed the sides of her head, her hands were shaking a little. ”
“And she ate?” I ask, knowing that she sometimes forgets to do that when she’s busy.
“Yeah,” he replies, his watery eyes ping-ponging between his mother and me. “She had pizza and French fries.”
That makes me feel a little bit better, but still. Something clearly isn’t right.
Rowan continues, going on about what went down after they left the shops.
“We tried to be quiet on the way home, but Lenny was tired and crying. I asked Mom if she needed help when we got here, but she told me no—that she just wanted to put Len down for a nap and rest her eyes for a few minutes.” He sniffles, and I reach out, settling my hand on his shoulder as if to say It’s alright.
“Sh-she started making those noises, and she wouldn’t wake up, so I called you. Is she going to be okay?”
I drop down to my knees, bringing the back of my hand to Paris’ forehead.
She doesn’t have a fever; her clammy skin is fairly cool to the touch.
There’s a half-empty bottle of water lying next to her on the couch, which means she at least tried to hydrate herself, but the sounds she’s making are a huge cause for concern as I lower my voice and try to wake her.
“Paris, baby, it’s Austin. You alright, sweetheart?” Her answer is nothing more than a weak, muffled groan, her eyelids fluttering, but remaining closed as she turns her head in my direction.
“Aus—” she croaks out half of my name, her features twisting as she winces. If she gives a shit that I’ve blown right past her boundaries and am now in her living room, she’s too weak to say so, angling herself back into the couch as a soft, shaky exhale leaves her lungs. “My head hurts.”
My subconscious immediately fears the worst, but I try to remain calm, especially since both boys are looking on with worry written across their expressions.
She’s talking—albeit not much—and I don’t want to jump the gun by calling an ambulance when she probably doesn’t need it.
We talked before about how, when she gets really overstimulated, she gets terrible headaches.
The fact placates me a little, keeping me in the right mindset to care for her without going to the extremes.
“She’s going to be alright,” I tell Rowan and Rhys, hoping like hell that I’m not lying. “I’ll bring her upstairs and see if Stella can swing by to check on her. Why don’t the two of you put a movie on and stay extra quiet so she can sleep. That’ll be a big help.”
They both nod, concern still etched in their features as I lean down and carefully lift Paris into my arms. She whimpers, burying her head into the crook of my neck, her trembling hand pressed against my chest as I pad across the room.
I try not to jar her much on our way upstairs, quietly passing Lennon’s nursery where she’s thankfully still napping peacefully.
Soft lullabies bleed into the hallway, but even they’re too loud for Paris as she finds her forehead with her palm.
Pushing through the primary bedroom door, I make a beeline for the bed, maneuvering the comforter down with one hand.
Ever so gently, I lower her to the mattress, removing her shoes and pants and setting them in a pile on the floor.
I’ve got the blanket pulled up to her chin just a few seconds later, gingerly sitting down beside her as I check for a fever one more time.
My knuckles graze the skin of her forehead, and while she still doesn’t feel warm, I’m worried.
Pulling my phone from the pocket of my pants, I open the Messages app and pull up my text thread with Stella.
ME:
Hey. I’m at Paris’. She’s not feeling well, and I want to make sure I shouldn’t be calling for an ambulance or rushing her to the hospital.
She answers immediately, the three bubbles dancing along the screen as I await her reply.
STELLA:
What are her symptoms?
ME:
Headache, mildly sweaty skin with no fever, pretty much every noise is causing her pain. I think she’s just overstimulated, but do you think she needs medical intervention?
STELLA:
Has she eaten? Do you know if she’s had any water?
ME:
She ate, and there was a bottle of water next to her when I got here. I don’t know what to do.
STELLA:
Want me to swing by and check on her? It’s probably stress-induced, but I’d honestly feel better seeing her with my own two eyes before I tell you to let her sleep it off.
ME:
Me too.
STELLA:
Be there in twenty.
Thankful for her urgency, I shoot her a quick thank you, then pull up Memphis’ contact info. I know he’s in the middle of a road stretch, but I still want to keep him updated on what’s going on in case he calls and she doesn’t answer.
ME:
Hey. Just wanted to give you a heads-up. Paris isn’t feeling well, but everything is under control. I just didn’t want you to worry if you couldn’t get a hold of her.
MEMPHIS:
Not feeling well, how?
ME:
I’m pretty sure she overdid it. She said her head hurts, and she can barely open her eyes. Her skin is clammy, but she doesn’t seem to have a fever.
MEMPHIS:
Sounds about right. That’s all pretty normal when she spreads herself too thin. I won’t be home until Tuesday, but I can send Oakley over if you want me to.
ME:
Nah. I’ve got it. Just wanted to let you know, and reassure you that everyone was taken care of. I’ll text you if anything changes.
MEMPHIS:
Thanks, man. I really appreciate you.
He texts me his best friend’s phone number, just in case, and I pocket the device, turning my attention back to Paris.
My poor, beautiful girl looks exhausted, steady shallow breaths puffing from her lips as she sleeps.
My heart squeezes in my chest as I drag my eyes across her soft features, tears pricking behind them at how much I fucking missed her.
I hate that she’s suffering right now, but there’s a selfish part of me that’s grateful for the opportunity to be this close again.
It may end in her telling me to fuck off after she’s back on her feet, but that’s fine, as long as she’s better.
Carefully, I dip down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head and breathing in her scent.
I’m immediately taken back to the first time I held her, the happy memory wrapping around me like a warm blanket as my lids fall closed.
I’m still so painfully in love with her. I always fucking will be.
Deciding to give her some peace and quiet, I stand from the bed and silently exit the room.
Lennon is still asleep when I walk past her door, so I head down the stairs to where the boys are sitting on the couch.
An animated movie plays on the television, both of them turning toward me as I approach.
“Is Mommy okay?” Rhys asks, sitting up straight.
The little guy looks distraught, the football he got signed by all the Renegades players on his last day of practice held tightly to his chest like armor.
Rowan is wearing a similar expression, which I can tell is being suppressed so that his brother doesn’t worry more than he already is.
Paris was right when she said he acts as the man of the house, and fuck if I’m not proud of him for how he cares for his family.
“She is,” I assure him, watching as his shoulders relax a bit. “Stella is the best nurse in the world, and she’s going to come over and check on your mom. But I think she just needs rest.”