Chapter 22
I broke Hercules.
The quiet moan emanating from the guest bedroom for the last few minutes makes me nervous. I lift my hand to knock on the closed door but hesitate, second-guessing myself.
What should I do?
A loud thud calls me to action. I clutch the doorknob and press my forehead to the door. “Harlan?”
A grunt is the only reply.
“I’m coming in.” I crack the door open and peek in. The pitiful picture of Harlan in the fetal position, shaking, is more than I can bear. “Oh, honey.”
His arm is extended toward the side table, and I glance down and notice his phone on the floor.
Kneeling by the edge of the bed, I place the back of my hand on his forehead. My opposite palm finds his sheets drenched in sweat. He is sweating out a fierce fever.
Harlan shudders. “I may not be up for taking you out tonight, sweetheart.”
At least I think that’s what he said. The intermittent shakes break up his words.
I scratch my head. “I think you caught the flu. This year’s strand is supposed to include super high fevers.
” Vomiting is also on the list, but I can’t bring myself to mention this.
“I’ll find you a MinuteClinic. But at some point, I need tomorrow’s flight information.
No way are you going to be able to travel. ”
“Trying to get me to stay longer, are you?” This might sound cute if he wasn’t coughing up a lung.
“You’re the one who got sick. If you wanted to stay longer, you could have just asked.” I bend over, pick up his phone, and place it on the side table. “Okay, let’s nail down the logistics. Where is your itinerary?”
Harlan’s teeth chatter. “Call Penelope. She’ll know what to do. Do you still have her number?”
Penelope is handy. I need a Penelope.
I pull my phone out of my back jeans pocket and shake it. “I’ve still got her number. I’ll be back in a minute, honey.” I run a hand through his damp hair before I step out of the room.
Rushing into the kitchen, I throw my phone down on the counter.
After scrubbing and drying my hands, I pull antibacterial wipes out of their container and proceed to clean my cell with the meticulous detail of a surgeon.
Satisfied with my decontamination process, I thumb through my contact list and hit Penelope’s number.
Just as she answers the call, I catch the uneven pounding of feet through the hallway, followed by the most horrific sounds.
“Penelope.” My breathing becomes labored as my frantic eyes dart around the room.
“Who am I speaking with?” The curt words cut through the line.
“Penelope.” I grasp my chest and pull in a choppy breath through my nose. “It’s Meredith.”
“Is Harlan with you? He’s supposed to be in Dallas until tomorrow.”
I claw at a drawer, pry it open, and grab a paper bag. I shove the phone between my shoulder and bent neck and give words to my biggest nightmare. “He’s throwing up.”
“Harlan’s throwing up? Well, that kind of thing happens, Meredith.”
Her reply gives me a chance to shake the bag loose and fix the opening around my mouth. I inhale and exhale three breaths. “Not in my house,” I say into the paper.
“I’m not surprised. The flu spread through the cast the last few weeks of shooting. High fever? Coughing? Vomiting?”
“Don’t.” The bag expands. “Say.” The bag contracts. “The V-word.”
“I’ll contact the on-set doctor to call in prescriptions for him. Can you text me your local pharmacy number, or do you want me to look it up?”
More gagging noises fill the house, and before my knees give out, I sit at the breakfast nook. Phone still cradled to my shoulder, one hand on the lifeline bag and the other covering my head, I start rocking back and forth.
“Meredith? Should I figure out how to get a sedative ordered for you?” Her offer might sound comical, but her voice is no-nonsense.
“I prefer Xanax and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.” Obscene amounts of the latter.
The bag crinkles with my inhale. My phone alerts me to an incoming call, and I glance at the screen.
Prissy.
I ignore the call. She’ll want to know about the property search, and I can’t talk about real life right now.
My next exhale stretches the limits of the paper.
Penelope clucks her tongue. “Text me the pharmacy number and I’ll take care of the details. I’ll also alert his boss and look into getting his flight changed.”
As I pull the bag down, I lean over my thighs and rest my head on my knees. “Penelope? What about Alex?” I have no idea what the custody agreement entails for this kind of thing.
“I’ll take care of it.”
Her clipped words confuse me. Is she angry? “Do you want me to ask Harlan—”
“I deal with Olivia on a regular basis. I will handle this.” Even her sigh is curt. “A warning, Meredith. Olivia’s behavior is erratic on a good day. It seems the stress of losing her father has sent her into a tailspin. I don’t know what it is, but she’s up to something.”
The hairs on my arms stand on end, and I sit up straight. “I appreciate the warning, but I can’t imagine I’d have an occasion to interact with her.”
“It’s not about your interactions with Olivia. It’s about your interactions with Harlan.”
I drop the bag and use my free hand to put pressure on my chest. “What does that mean?”
“Olivia makes empty threats, and it’s hard to tell if she’ll follow through. This time she’s spouting off about challenging the current custody agreement.”
Terrified to know the answer, I whisper my question. “On what grounds?”
“She claims being around Alex during her father’s illness and death reminded her of the mother she wants to be. But there’s no mistaking the timing. She didn’t speak of this until she found out Harlan was going to visit you.”
My stomach churns, and I might be the next one to throw up.
Me. Olivia wants to challenge Harlan’s custody of Alex because of me.
My thoughts spin faster than I can process them. If she has someone look into my past, they’ll find a long-term treatment facility stay. Not the most stable girlfriend choice to be around a precious three-year-old.
Moisture pricks my eyes. I won’t be part of causing Harlan to lose a child.
“Meredith, I want to be clear with you. I like you. Harlan has been different since he met you. Lighter. Happier.”
The kind words are not a worthy opponent for my swirling anxiety.
“But if you’re not serious about a future with him, would you consider letting him go sooner rather than later?”
The phone slips from my shaking hand, and I fumble to regain control. “Um. Okay.” I swallow down the lump in my throat. This conversation has taken a turn I never saw coming. “Thank you so much for your help today, Penelope.”
When she signs off, I gently bang the phone against my forehead. How am I supposed to know what a future with Harlan looks like?
My past is peppered with love. I’ve always fallen quick and deep. My present is filled with the solid possibility of Harlan. But my future? What if we don’t want the same things?
Risking his custody of Alex isn’t an option.
I stand, shake out my arms, and peer down the corridor. No sounds answer my stare. After I send out a few texts, I shove my phone in my back jeans pocket. “Okay, Meredith. Suck it up.”
I woke up this morning with a pit in my stomach, understanding this would be our last day together. What a difference an hour makes. Squeezing my eyes closed, I beg God to save us from the vomit.
After tiptoeing down the hallway, I stop at the open door of the guest room. “You all right?”
The prone, pale-faced man in front of me squints. “Why do you look like I should be asking you the same thing?” His frail voice is choppy.
“I can’t do vomit.” My confession sounds like that of a scared little girl. Maybe a seven-year-old little girl named Meredith.
The noise he makes resembles a dying horse. “Is this like how you can’t do famous people?” Lying on his side, he clasps his hands and tucks them under his head.
“I’m so sorry.” I take one tentative step into the room. “I don’t do vomit. Ever. It’s not one of my more attractive qualities. Steve’s and my marriage agreement stated if he puked, he was on his own. If the kids puked, they understood to go to their father.”
“All your qualities”—he moans—“are . . . attractive.”
Nope. Flirting doesn’t work while the threat of vomit lingers.
I shift my right foot back, considering how to flee. “I can’t help it. Kim Sterling threw up on my head in the second grade.”
One side of Harlan’s mouth twitches, and he clutches his stomach. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“We were driving back from a Blue Birds campout. We got lost, and my mom pulled off the highway to look at a map. I was lying down on the back seat floorboard, and out of nowhere Kim says, ‘I think I have to . . .’ And then she did. All over my head.” I grab my hair and pull with each of the last four words.
Harlan’s laughter fights with his groans.
“Direct hit, Harlan. No exaggeration.” I point to my crazy hair. “With both of us screaming, my mother drove to a gas station to clean us up. She put my head under the sink faucet to try to—” I cover my mouth and shake my head.
“Okay.” Harlan clears his throat, causing me to jump back. He holds out a hand, palm forward. “Clearly this is tougher on you than it is on me. What did Penelope say?”
Bless his heart.
Balling my hands into fists, I step toward the bed. “We’re taking care of you. I texted a friend to pick up your prescriptions so I don’t have to leave you.”
I might be curled up in a comatose ball in the corner if he throws up again, but by God, I will not abandon him in his time of need.
Harlan’s face softens, and he offers a jerky nod. “What happened to Kim Sterling?”
With my arms folded across my chest, I scowl. “The next day at school she spread a rumor that I didn’t wash my hair.”
“Stop.” Harlan coughs and throws a hand out to me. “Stop making me laugh.”
“Nothing funny about almost going to jail for murder. Which is what would have happened had she not moved away during the following Christmas break.”
“Meredith. Please.” His lips twitch in a miserable smile.