Chapter 14 #2
My daughter had been my priority, her health my only priority from the second she was diagnosed, the second she was born.
And Hannah had made every sacrifice for Clara without question, without hesitation.
Hannah would not expect anyone to come to her hotel room.
She didn’t have any true friends here but Lori, who was pregnant, and I knew Hannah would refuse to expose her to any germs.
“Wait here,” I told Calliope, moving before I could hear her spout a remark about not being ordered around.
I went to Clara’s room, grabbing the digital thermometer from where it rested on her dresser.
A reminder, an artifact of a time that I couldn’t let myself believe was gone.
All of the reminders of her illness lingered.
Masks. Sanitizers, pill bottles in my medicine cabinet.
Because I thought if I threw them away it would be tempting the fates, the universe or whatever, to think I was confident. That I was complacent.
Clara didn’t stir when I brushed my palm over her forehead. It didn’t feel warm. Her breathing was even. Unlabored. I took her temperature.
Normal.
No signs of her being ill. Not yet at least. I leaned down to lay a kiss to her forehead, inhaling the magical scent that was my daughter, reminding myself she was healthy.
I walked out of the room with the thermometer.
“Could you stay for a little while longer?” I asked Calliope, the words paining me as they came out.
“I’ll call my dad; he can stay for the night.
I’ll go to the hotel. Check on Hannah. I’ll clear it with the doctor before I’m around Clara to be sure.
But I’ll take proper precautions, and I’m assuming that Clara has already been exposed to whatever Hannah has anyway.
You’re contagious before you start exhibiting symptoms.”
I spouted all the knowledge I’d memorized since Clara’s procedure. Calliope knew it too, since she was immediate family who’d had to follow strict precautions after her transplant.
“No need to call your dad, I’ll stay,” she quickly replied.
It didn’t surprise me. Calliope, upon first impression, did not seem like the kind of person who would drop everything to help you. But that was exactly the kind of person she was. She’d likely just do it while drinking and wearing her patented RBF.
Even still, I hadn’t forgotten the harrowing ordeal she’d just gone through. Calliope would disembowel me for even alluding to her being weak, though. “You sure?”
She nodded. “I’ll call Elliot, get him to bring me my skincare routine and PJs. Plus, more booze. And better booze.” She winked at me. “He’ll be the sober caregiver, obviously. And he’ll bring Fluffy. I know Clara misses her.”
Though the thought of Clara waking up without me or Hannah grated my insides, I knew she’d be delighted to find Calliope, Elliot, and the fucking cat in our places.
I also knew Clara would be more upset knowing that Hannah was in a hotel alone, sick.
I put the thermometer on the coffee table.
“I’ll need you to go in to check Clara’s temperature in a few hours.
Call me if it’s even a degree above average.
If she wakes in pain, coughing….” My palms started sweating at the mere thought of Clara being sick.
I already had countless images of her in a hospital bed tattooed into my brain.
Calliope nodded, a more somber expression on her face. “You know I’ll call, and that Elliot and I will watch over her. Now go take care of Hannah.” She shooed me away.
And I didn’t protest.
HANNAH
I was dying.
Logically, I knew I wasn’t.
I had the flu. A bad strain, maybe. But I was young, healthy, and I’d recover with rest, fluids, and medication.
Which I had none of.
I’d been in such a rush to get out of the house and away from Clara that I’d grabbed little more than the essentials.
And on the short drive to the very fancy hotel Calliope had put me up in, I’d taken a turn for the worse. I’d spent the whole day trying to talk myself out of being sick and then used my last bursts of energy to call Calliope to weakly argue with her about paying for the hotel.
It was a testament to my lack of energy that she won that argument because I didn’t like taking charity from anyone. Although I suspected Calliope probably would’ve won that argument even if I’d had all my faculties. Regardless, I was nowhere near equipped to go toe-to-toe with her.
Hence, my letting her organize the hotel. And because packing my bag and driving there depleted all of the remaining energy I had left in my body.
Then there was the dull pulse of panic inside of me that I’d been in denial for too long and had exposed something to Clara that might actually kill her.
I was overcome with worry; if I felt this bad, how would this affect Clara’s fragile immune system?
Guilt cloaked me thicker than the sheet of sweat on my body.
I knew that it was not my fault I was sick. And that Clara would eventually be exposed to illnesses. Her doctors wouldn’t have cleared her for her birthday, then the Halloween party if they weren’t confident in her body’s ability to fight off infections.
I’d seen her numbers. They were excellent. Clara was the ideal recovery patient. Nothing short of a miracle. If she were exposed to whatever I had, there was a chance she could fight it off entirely. If she got sick, she would recover. She had to recover.
I got sick because I hadn’t been sleeping, barely eating, and had become a wreck since Halloween, since Calliope’s near-death experience.
Since the tension between Beau and me had intensified.
And because I got another credit card bill from a different company.
Waylon was back to his old tricks again.
I had been so focused on taking care of Clara, resisting Beau, denying my feelings for him, and panicking about Waylon that I’d run myself down. That was my script, and I had to stick to it.
The goal was to recover as quickly as possible so I could get back to Clara and ensure that she was healthy.
I was expecting room service when I opened the door.
I wasn’t hallucinating. My fever wasn’t high enough for that.
“You can’t be here,” I groaned, squinting at Beau’s large shape in the doorway.
I tried to shut the door in his face, but he caught it with his boot, and I wasn’t strong enough to push back.
“You need to be with Clara,” I told him, trying to use my body as a barrier.
“You can’t be exposed to whatever fresh hell this plague is. ” I let out a wet cough.
My need for Clara to have her caregiver healthy gave me the strength to sound strong and authoritative.
“I need to be here, with you,” Beau protested, slipping a mask over his face. “I’ve got this. And you know as well as I do that Clara has likely already been exposed. Now let me in.”
I stayed where I was. “If she has already been exposed, then you need to be at home, with her, monitoring her,” I argued. “I can take care of myself.”
Even with the mask on, I saw Beau form a scowl. “I checked her temp less than an hour ago; she’s fine. Elliot and Calliope are with her right now. And I’m calling the doctor in the morning. Clara is taken care of. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
My breath left my lungs. And it had nothing to do with any kind of flu.
“Step back before you fall,” Beau instructed through gritted teeth.
Still, I couldn’t move.
“So help me, Hannah, I will fucking carry you into that room.” His threat was a rough growl.
I moved only because Beau sounded scarily serious. The last thing either of us needed right then was physical contact.
I walked back into the room, all but collapsing on the sofa in the living room of the suite. I’d never been in a hotel room that had more than a bed and an attached bathroom. The hotels I’d been in had questionably clean sheets and mold in the bathrooms.
Not only did this place have a separate living room, but it had marble bathrooms. Exquisite furnishings. It reeked of luxury and wealth.
Never had I been somewhere as opulent as this, yet I was too sick to enjoy it.
Beau didn’t so much as glance at the surroundings, his gaze fixed on me.
“Why in the fuck didn’t you call me?” Beau prowled forward, depositing a large bag on the coffee table in front of me.
“I did call you.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. My head was pounding. “But you were working. I didn’t want to bother you.”
Beau was silent for a handful of seconds, hands on his hips as the air practically pulsed with his anger.
“Bother me?” he asked quietly.
I nodded, wincing at the motion.
“It bothers me to see you here, alone.” His words were tight, clipped.
He rustled through the bag before depositing a water bottle in front of me. When I heard the rattle of pills, I looked up to watch him open a bottle of Tylenol, shake two into his palm, open the water bottle, then hand both to me.
I wanted to fight his presence further, but I needed the pills and the water, so I took them, shaken at seeing Beau present them to me with such care.
I was reminded of the delicate way he’d handled my wrist after Calliope’s attack, the featherlight touch.
He’d made sure not to touch me—even accidentally—since then.
He gazed at me for a few more beats. I smoothed my hair, internally cringing at what a mess I must look, sweat sticking to my hair, face likely flushed, splotchy.
Beau was not looking at me like I was repulsive.
In fact, it was the exact opposite. He held the stare for a couple of seconds more, then started unpacking the rest of the bag.
Gatorade, more water, the entire cold and flu section of the pharmacy, it seemed.
My eyes traveled over his body, long and strong. He moved around the room with purpose, lining up medications, putting the drinks in the fridge.
I waited until he was done, not that I had another option. I didn’t have the strength to even offer to help.