Chapter 12 #2
Her eyes are wide, roaming over my face as she follows me into the living room. “You look pale,” she says. “Are you chilling?”
“No. Just the sore throat and headache. I was probably a little warm from getting out of bed.”
Mom clearly doesn’t believe me since she lays her cool palm on my forehead. “Well, you don’t feel hot,” she agrees reluctantly.
A key scrapes in the front door lock, and I stiffen.
The door swings open, and Hunter walks in wearing his gym clothes, holding his water bottle, illuminated by the hall light I left on. He runs his hand through his bed-mussed hair, looking half asleep.
I must make a noise of frustration, because he halts halfway into the living room. When he sees me and my mom, his eyes widen.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen with Farmor?” he asks.
“Nothing new happened with Farmor. That’s very kind of you to be worried, Hunter.” My mom’s smile is weary, worn thin by the last week. The circles under her eyes are even darker. Almost as dark as they were in my nightmare a couple of nights ago.
“Then, is everything okay?”
“Olivia’s sick,” Mom says.
When Hunter says, “Oh, okay . . .” with a confused glance at my mom—probably wondering why someone in her mid--twenties needs her mommy when she gets a cold.
“Because of the immunosuppressants she has to take to keep her body from rejecting her heart, she can’t fight off infection like normal people. Every illness she catches could be fatal if not treated properly.”
At that, the blood drains from his face.
Thanks a lot, Mom.
I flush. “That’s not exactly true . . .”
“What can I do to help?” Hunter asks. His gaze travels over my body, his face carefully neutral as he takes in the robe he’s already teased me for once and my long, bare—unshaven—legs.
His eyes lift back to mine and hold my gaze for a beat too long; his scrutiny makes my stomach tighten.
I hope Mom can’t see the blush staining my cheeks.
“I’m afraid to leave Livvy alone.” Her words snap us out of it, and we both turn to look at her. “But I really should get back to the hospital to check on her farmor. Is there any way . . . ?” She trails off.
“What?” Hunter prompts.
“Would you be willing to stay with her? Maybe even prepare the cold compress for her headache and give her the medicine she needs?”
“Mom.” I widen my eyes at her. “I’m not that sick, and I can take care of myself. I’m twenty-five, not ten.”
“Could have fooled me in that robe.” Hunter quirks one eyebrow, the corners of his mouth pulling up into a smirk.
I pin him with a glare. “Okay, that is enough from you about my robe!”
Mom has the audacity to laugh. “Oh, that old thing? It’s sentimental for her. Her best friend gave it to her when she was living in the hospital for—”
“Mom, I promise he doesn’t care.” I grab the plastic bag out of her hands and give her a not-so-gentle push toward the door. “Thank you for bringing this over. Please let me know how Farmor is. And, Hunter, I can take my own medicine, so you can go on your run or whatever you were going to do.”
But Mom doesn’t budge, and her smile is gone. “You’re too pale, Livvy. We need to take your blood pressure and call Dr. Thorup.”
“No. It’s not even six. Don’t bother him. I’ll be fine if I can go lie down.” I am starting to feel dizzy, but I don’t dare admit it, or she’ll be driving me to the ER next. “I’ll rest for a few minutes and then take my Tylenol and make the compress.”
“I can help.” Hunter is silhouetted against the hall light, his eyes hooded in the shadows. “Just tell me what to do.”
“It’s only a cold,” I protest. “You don’t need to help me.”
“It’s never ‘only a cold’ with you, Liv.
You know that. And I can’t go through another episode like last year if we don’t have to.
Especially now. We can’t keep the bakery’s hours limited much longer, and who knows if—” She cuts off, and I flinch.
If Farmor will make it. “You look like you’re about to fall over,” she quickly continues.
“Go lie down on the couch right now.” Mom takes the bag back and turns to Hunter, dismissing me.
I don’t have the energy to complain or argue any further. And bringing up last year is a sober reminder of how quickly a stupid cold can turn into far worse for me. I do as she says and head to the couch, curling onto my side, pulling my knees into my stomach.
“She can’t have any ibuprofen or aspirin—not even if her fever spikes.
She can only have 2,000 mg of Tylenol a day, so give her one pill right now and put two drops of each of these oils on a washcloth damp with cool water to put on her forehead for the headache.
If you could rub some peppermint onto the back of her neck that usually helps a lot too.
” My mom continues to explain her bag of tricks, things we’ve learned over the years to help me manage illness since I can’t use a lot of the traditional medicines out there.
I’m only half listening, pressing my fingertips into my temples to try and make the pain abate, with my eyes squeezed shut.
But I tune back in when I hear Hunter say, “If it’s that serious, I can work remotely so I can keep an eye on her.”
“Oh, thank you. You’re a lifesaver, Hunter.”
My stomach drops to my ankles. I groan without opening my eyes. “Mom, please tell me you didn’t ask him to skip work to babysit me?”
“It’s fine.” Hunter’s voice is gruff. “She didn’t ask; I offered.”
I’m baffled by his willingness to stay. He’s only kind and considerate to other people, not me. Except for last week. And yesterday. And today.
“You can go, Mrs. Karlsson. I’ll text you if she gets worse,” Hunter says.
“Thank you, Hunter. And you can call me Jenny.”
“Okay. I’ve got this, Jenny.”
I peek through squinted eyes in time to see him give her that same smile as the day he met her in the bakery—the one he’s never shown me.
My mom still hesitates by the door. “Don’t wait to call Dr. Thorup if it gets any worse.
” There’s a heavy pause when I don’t respond, and she says louder this time, “Liv! Promise me. If you get any worse, you call him—or have Hunter call him. I can’t leave unless I know you’re going to take care of yourself! ”
The worry swimming in her eyes pierces me. “I promise,” I relent.
She purses her lips. “I’ll call and check in on her in an hour or two.”
Hunter nods.
“You promise to tell me anything that changes with Farmor too!” I call as she leaves, and she lifts a hand in acknowledgment before the door shuts behind her.
Once Mom’s gone, Hunter comes into the living room and perches on the edge of the love seat kitty-corner from the couch I’m lying on, my mom’s grocery bag of supplies in his lap. The stack of papers on the table is a white, graph--covered elephant between us.
The silence stretches, uncomfortable and weighted.
At last, Hunter clears his throat and says, “She seems really worried about a little sore throat and a headache.”
I frown. “Yeah, well, as much as I wish she were overreacting, this is my life. The last time I got a ‘little sore throat,’ I ended up in the hospital for a week.”
“Wow. Okay, she wasn’t exaggerating. That’s .
. . that would not be good.” Hunter’s forehead creases.
“I guess I’ll go get you some water and your Tylenol and rub some peppermint onto the back of your neck and then make a cold compress with more peppermint on it.
” He rattles off her list of instructions as he jumps to his feet, heading for the kitchen before I can respond.
I close my eyes to rest for what I assume will be a few minutes at least, but he’s back so fast I think he’s afraid I could die right there on the couch if I don’t get the Tylenol fast enough.
“Here,” he says, squatting in front of me, holding out a glass of water in one hand and balancing a single Tylenol in the palm of the other.
I’ve never realized until now how big his hands are or how long his tapered fingers are.
To say nothing of the muscles flexing across his forearms as he extends the cup to set it down on the table next to me or the veins that stand out against his tanned skin, drawing my gaze to the swell of his biceps.
Veins any phlebotomist would swoon over . . . but that make me flush.
I barely stop myself from shaking my head to dislodge all intrusive thoughts about his hands or arms. Maybe I am developing a fever after all—that’s the only reason I would be this delusional, right? I definitely feel overheated, and that is the only possible explanation.
Not long, tapered fingers or arm veins.
Hunter, hopefully oblivious to my ogling, says, “And, um, I guess now I need to rub the peppermint on your neck?”
“No!”
Our eyes meet, sending a lurch through me, then we both quickly look away. There’s no way I could handle his hands rubbing me right now. The thought of him using those fingers to massage oil onto the back my neck is wrong. Very, very wrong. So wrong it makes my cheeks burn at the thought of it.
Hunter clears his throat and rocks back on his heels, putting a little bit more space between us. Letting him touch me—especially when he’s causing alarming reactions from parts of my body that have no right to betray me like that—is a hard pass.
“No,” I repeat, a little less hysterically. “I can do that.”
He nods and hands me the bottle of peppermint oil. I unscrew the lid and pour a couple of drops onto my palm, then work it onto the base of my neck underneath my hairline. It makes my skin tingle, but the relief is almost instantaneous, taking the edge off the headache.
And my focus off Hunter. Thankfully.
Hunter retrieves the oil and says, “While you take the Tylenol, I’ll go make the compress.”
I push myself up to sitting so I can swallow the medicine. He turns his hand over to drop the pill into mine, the side of his pinkie brushing my palm. I suppress a shiver and grab the glass from the table, where he set it down. “Why are you willing to do all this? You could have told my mom no.”