Chapter 37 – pippa
PIPPA
When my fever finally breaks, it’s like coming up from underwater. The surroundings go from blurry to crisp. Distant noises become crystal clear, and the intense pressure pressing all around your head is gone. A transition so sudden, it’s like traveling between worlds.
But I’ve never been underwater for three days before.
So it’s weird, coming out and finding that the world is a little different. Somehow, my sheets got changed, even though I can’t remember getting out of bed for that to happen. A glass of water has magically appeared on the bedside table, and I drink it down hungrily.
Waffle takes the opportunity to leap onto my lap. I look down at her and my heart sinks. Fuck, if I’ve been this out of it, it’s probably been three days since she ate.
“I’m so sorry, pretty girl!” I yelp as I jump out of bed, rushing to her feeder in the kitchen.
Except the feeder is already full, and her water bowl has been changed.
In fact, the entire kitchen looks like it’s been wiped down, and the dishwasher is whirring.
The apartment is clean, fresh, and completely quiet.
Which, since I was too sick to clean, is weirdly suspicious.
What exactly did I miss since my fever took over?
My phone seems like the most likely place to find answers, so I head back to the bedroom to review.
Apparently, I’ve missed a dozen calls from Ingrid. She’s also sent and unsent a bunch of texts, which I obviously can’t read now. Maybe she reamed me out for getting sick, then thought better of it? In any case, the text she didn’t unsend explains a lot, and yet nothing at all.
Ingrid
Hope you’re feeling better. Call me when you have a chance. I had a very interesting conversation with your stepbrother.
How the hell did my boss end up talking to Ryan? Presumably he explained that I was sick, but what on Earth would he say that’s interesting?
There’s also a text from Ryan a few days ago, asking if I’m still alive.
I’m guessing when I didn’t respond, he barged in my room and found me.
I do remember him taking care of me—soup bringing, toilet hair holding—but it’s all a little hazy.
I hope my fever didn’t make me do or say anything I’d regret.
Because one thing sure hasn’t changed: Ryan isn’t good for me. His tender Florence Nightingale routine is a dangerous distraction, designed by the universe to tempt me to reconsider that decision.
I have to be stronger. Unless Ryan decided that he wants to be my actual boyfriend, I can’t let him in any deeper.
My heart jumps to my throat when I hear the elevator doors open. Presumably, Ryan’s back, and I don’t know if I’m ready to see him yet. But I have to find out what he said to Ingrid, so I don’t exactly have a choice.
With my purple blanket around my shoulders, I head to the kitchen to find Ryan carrying a brown paper bag and two plastic cups. His eyes widen when he sees me.
“Hey,” he says, his eyes flickering over my face and body, taking stock of me. “Are you feeling better?”
“Better is relative,” I say, shrugging. “I feel like I just got run over by a dump truck, but that’s better than yesterday. Even though I’m pretty sure I smell like death.”
Ryan chuckles and holds up the bag. “Does ‘better’ mean you’re ready for French toast and an omelette? Beau made them up for you.”
My stomach twists uncomfortably. “I don’t think I’m there yet, sorry.”
“I thought so. How about a smoothie?”
I eye the plastic cup he holds out toward me suspiciously. “Beau made that too, right?”
Ryan groans. “Yes. But for the record, my smoothies are great.”
I stick my tongue out. Ryan puts fricking chicken in his smoothies, because Martha Stewart wronged him in a past life or something.
When the strawberry-banana smoothie hits my tastebuds, my level of “better” instantly rises. I sigh. “Thanks, Ryan. For this and for, uh, everything else.”
He smiles warmly. “I like helping you, Pips.”
I quickly look away, because him smiling at me like that is dangerous. “So, uh, I heard you talked to Ingrid. She said it was ‘interesting.’”
“Yeah, I might have reamed her out a little for overworking you. Sorry if she took it out on you.”
“She didn’t.” I pause. “Mom and Jack—they’ve been calling you too?”
Our parents have definitely heard about the Toronto Tea article, because I’ve gotten hundreds of texts from them. I silenced them all, because I’m not ready to deal with them yet.
Ryan shrugs. “I’ve been ignoring them.”
“Me too.” The texts I saw from Mom were all asking me to deny the rumors. Since I can’t exactly do that, avoidance seemed like the only strategy for now.
Ryan shifts awkwardly. “Look, how about you finish your smoothie? And I can go run you a bath.”
I blanche. “So I really do smell bad?”
“No, weirdly. But I think it’d make you feel better.”
“Thanks for lying to me,” I say with a laugh. “But yeah, that sounds nice.”
He nods, then disappears down the hallway toward my room.
After a moment, I hear the sound of rushing water.
I perch on a stool, finishing my smoothie and soaking up the sunshine streaming through the windows.
For a few minutes, I let myself enjoy feeling better.
I’m still too weak to deal with all the hard stuff right now.
I can afford taking a little time to just heal.
When the water turns off, I pad back to my bathroom. The scent of cherries hangs in the air—apparently, Ryan used my favorite body wash to add some bubbles. He’s kneeling next to the tub, his fingers in the water as he checks the temperature.
“It’s still a little hot,” he warns me.
“I like it that way,” I assure him.
He pauses, staring at the ground. “Do you mind if I stay? I can turn around so I don’t see you, I’m just a little freaked that you might pass out or fall asleep and—”
“Ryan.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve seen me. You can stay.”
The truth is, I want him here. I feel safe with him—cared for. I don’t care if I feel stupid about it later. Right now, I don’t want to be alone.
I peel off my pajamas, tossing them on the floor outside the room.
Ryan keeps his eyes glued to the bathmat, but part of me wishes he would look.
I dip my toe in the bath, testing the water.
It feels just on the edge of too hot, just like I like it.
I sigh as I step into the tub and sink down below the water.
“This is amazing,” I sigh.
He smiles over at me, and his eyes land on the washcloth sitting on the edge of the bath. He picks it up, looking up at me through his eyelashes. “Can I help?”
I bite my lip and nod.
He shifts closer to the edge of the tub. I lift my hair up off my neck, and he dips the cloth into the water before he starts scrubbing my neck and upper back. I swallow a moan. The heat and friction feels amazingly good against my skin, especially after lying in bed for days.
Ryan takes his time, scrubbing my back and my shoulders.
He slowly moves down my arms, lifting them each in turn as he moves the cloth in circles around my skin.
My muscles melt into the warm water and his touch.
I can’t remember anybody touching me with so much care, making sure every inch of me is cleaned.
Once he’s done, he shifts to the front of me, holding the cloth up to my collarbone. “Here too?” he asks, his voice low and rough.
I nod, and he starts washing my breasts and chest. It’s sensual and intimate, him touching me there, but he’s so, so careful.
Careful to touch me with the cloth and not his hands, careful not to linger anywhere that would take this somewhere more sexual.
It’s like we’re flitting toward and away from the line between us, the one that separates affection from lust.
When he’s finished with my body, he pauses. “Can I wash your hair?” Like it would be a favor to him to wash it.
“Please.”
He grabs my shampoo and squeezes some into his palm. While he rubs it into a lather, I sink back so I can let my head sink under the water. When I reemerge, he’s already shifted to sit on the back edge of the tub.
Ryan’s fingers massaging my scalp is heaven. His fingers scrape perfectly along my skin, sending little electric shivers down my spine. He scrubs away days of sickness, of heartbreak and disappointment.
I could just dip my head back under the water to rinse off the shampoo.
Instead, Ryan nudges my jaw upward and says, “Close your eyes.” His hand is big enough that when he cups it, he can pour a decent amount of water over my hair.
He takes his time, rinsing out all the suds, careful not to let the shampoo drip down into my eyes.
Once my hair is blissfully clean, Ryan grabs the washcloth and moves down.
He wipes any lingering soap off my torso, then moves down.
My lower belly heats when he presses the washcloth between my thighs, but I know he’s not trying to turn me on—not now.
He just washes my legs and hips while I stare at his rolled-up sleeves and corded forearm.
It’s a disappointment and a relief when Ryan moves away from my core to wash my calves and feet. I can’t hold back a giggle when he washes between my toes.
“Ticklish?” he says, the hint of a smile on his lips.
“Please. As if I’d ever give you that ammunition against me.”
His smile turns into a grin, and he just looks so him.
Boyish, playful, teasing, but still piercing.
He sees everything about me, every stupid flaw and preference, from the music I hate to the body wash I love.
It’s like he spent every day since he met me burrowing into my head, making himself a home that I can never dig out.
I move first, but he meets me halfway. Our lips meet, his hand cupping my jaw, my hands twisting into his shirt. It’s sweet, warm, melty—like we were just waiting for us to let ourselves be soft enough to kiss like this.
The way our lips touch feels like a promise. It breaks my heart into pieces, but somehow glues it back together at the same time. I feel shattered and remade, destroyed and turned into something stronger, fiercer, more beautiful.
When we finally break away from the kiss, we rest our foreheads against each other. I stare into his dark eyes for a moment, as years of memories and unsaid words pass between us. Like a passage between our minds, when we can exchange messages we don’t dare to say out loud. We don’t need to.
He sighs, and I pull back. He stands up to get me a towel, and there’s nothing left to say.