Chapter 12
I’m about halfway through reading a poorly formatted web page ranking the most reputable Bigfoot videos on the internet when a horrible realization dawns on me:
I think I’ve caught the plague.
“There’s one bit of footage,” Hayden rambles, pacing in front of the TV and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I think it’s from Siberia. Or Canada? I don’t know, it looked cold there—”
“You don’t remember?”
“I know , it’s embarrassing. I’m meant to be the professional here. Anyway, there are multiple Bigfoots walking across the screen, and for some reason, I find it very compelling.” He motions little walking feet with his fingers, then slumps against the couch and begins to scour his computer again. “I should have this bookmarked. What kind of Squatcher am I?”
We’ve been at this for hours, cataloging reference points for our upcoming trip, establishing an itinerary, and making travel arrangements. Our venture would take us to Fresno one night, because Hayden needed to look for Fresno Nightcrawlers, even if we didn’t make it a full episode, then to San Jose to visit the Winchester Mystery House, and two days way up north hunting for Bigfoot, before we return home.
I think about a whole five days away with Hayden and my stomach lurches. We almost kissed. I spent an hour resting against his body watching the stars until the glue he’d applied to the places Cade broke me dried. How are we supposed to avoid talking about the almost-kiss for five whole days? We’ve hardly made it three.
Hayden has not mentioned it so far and nothing’s changed, but the way he looks at me is still there and it bubbles furiously between us. There’s a sense of affection and longing that hasn’t gone away. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to fight it off.
Hayden hums the X-Files theme song to himself, typing furiously at his laptop. I don’t like the idea of bailing, not when we’re on such a good track.
“It’s not Siberia! It’s Yellowstone,” Hayden shouts.
As I shut my laptop and pack up, I cough like a sixty-five-year-old smoker. Cthulhu looks up from his cat tree and hisses. Then Hayden pays attention.
“Hey, don’t be rude, man.” He turns to me. “You okay?”
I must look not okay. His eyes flood with concern and he comes to my side.
“I think I’m going to go home. I should be okay tomorrow.”
Hayden presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “Jeez, Hallie, you’re burning up.”
“Just call me the Jonas Brothers.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
I try to sniffle away the congestion in my nose and head, but to no avail. I have no idea how I’m going to drive all the way back to the Valley, but I know I can’t stay here.
“Do you want to take a nap?”
“I can do that at home.”
“I don’t think you’re in much shape to drive. Is Nora around?”
I shake my head. “No, Nora went to an indie art festival with Jamie this weekend. I haven’t heard from her in twenty-four hours. I think she died of boredom. She won’t be much help.”
“Uh…huh. You can rest here for a bit if you want. I don’t want to leave you alone at your apartment all weekend.”
“?’S okay. I’ll be fine.”
When I’m sick, I’m used to staying out of the way, sniffling on as few things as I can, and waiting out the illness. Or going to work anyway because I was up against deadlines and filming schedules…
“Really, if you want to go rest, you can. I can get you home eventually.”
“In your bed?”
“Sure. It’s clean.”
“Does it smell like you?” I ask. My god, delirium is beating me to a pulp at the moment.
His brows furrow. “I imagine so. Is that a selling point?”
I nod.
“You must really not be feeling well.”
I’m reassured by the soft laugh Hayden lets out as he offers me his hand. I climb off the couch with him. I’m so tired and achy I hardly have time to register that Hayden’s bed is probably in his room. In fact, there’s a good chance that it is.
The door is always closed, but his room is wedged between the kitchen and bathroom, and I’m not sure what to expect. Hayden keeps so much of himself guarded and behind a shield. This feels like an unarmed version of himself that I might not have a right to yet.
But he doesn’t seem to mind, not as I follow after him as a sad flurry of sniffles. For the first time, I think about the fact that I might be getting him sick too. What’ll happen if both of us can’t film? We don’t have the time to delay. I’m going to have to drug myself into oblivion on DayQuil to film in a few days. At least if I’m a sick mess, Hayden can go on without me. By now, I’m sure he’s figured out how to command attention a little easier.
Then I worry that maybe being too high on cold medicine will make me start believing in things like the Jersey Devil. I don’t know if that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
He pushes the door open, giving a quick peek to evaluate the condition of his room. When it passes his assessment, he invites me in. The back wall is exposed brick with a few art pieces hammered into it. A simple, black-framed bed takes up the middle of the room with an IKEA nightstand on either side of it. The room smells of clean laundry and an earthy musk I attribute to the small essential oil diffuser puffing happily in the corner.
“It’s nice,” I say. Hayden’s already ushering me toward his bed, where I plop onto the comforter. It’s black and very, very soft to the touch. “Really, I’m okay.”
The last thing I want is to owe someone. It could come up when Hayden and I disagreed on a creative choice, if we needed to cut something he cared about. I’d lose any leverage I had. But when I try to imagine the words, I cannot hear them in Hayden’s voice. I can’t imagine him saying words that would hurt me.
Not after our talk on the rocket ship. Not from the guy who told me I was the first good thing in his life in years.
I unlace my shoes and drop them beside the bed, crawling under the comforter cocoon he holds open for me like I’m a sad caterpillar. My head sinks against his pillow, and it does smell like him. In minutes, I’m going to infect every thread of his bedding with the plague, but for now—with what ability to smell I have—I breathe in the warm, woodsy scent enveloping me. Hayden drapes the blanket over me with an amused huff.
“You good?” he asks.
I nod.
“Okay. I’m going to keep working, but let me know if you need anything. I’ll just be outside.”
I’m nearly asleep by the time the bedroom door shuts.
?
?
When I wake up again, it’s dark out. The lights of Downtown LA glimmer through Hayden’s solitary bedroom window. Now the room smells of cool eucalyptus. I’m not sure if I feel better or worse, but I am warm. And a little sweaty. I make a mental note to offer to wash all of Hayden’s bedding for him.
My heavy eyes drag across the room, taking a closer survey now that I’m alone. I register a reusable water bottle with various cryptid stickers, a contact lens case, and a daily pill organizer. Behind the mild clutter is a small corkboard tacked with photos and mementos—badges from a convention, a flying saucer newspaper clipping, and a strip of photo-booth photos. I look for any glimpses into a Hayden different than the Hayden I know now, who lives behind the mic, the glasses, the shaggy hair.
I choke on a cough before I can think any more on it. This summons Hayden. I think about getting out of this bed, and I want to slump to the floor like I’m made of Flubber. I think about getting in my car and driving myself home, and I instantly visualize my car wrapped around a palm tree.
A flash of light from the living room burns the corners of my vision, and I whimper into the pillow.
“Good morning,” he whispers, kneeling beside the bed, his weight shifting the mattress.
“It’s night.”
“It is. How do you feel?”
My eyes flutter open. A person’s face has never made me feel better like his does. I see so little of Hayden off duty. I wonder what he looks like cooking dinner for himself or if he lies in bed for hours watching videos of cryptids online, mentally debunking every one of them. I want to know that side of him too.
I sniffle, tucking the covers around my body tighter. Fuck, I really want to take my bra off, but I’ve already overstayed my welcome. “I’m okay.”
“You said that before, too,” he chides. “Then you slept for six hours.”
“Six hours?” I slur.
The smile teasing at his lips indicates he’s not mad or trying to kick me out.
“I feel shitty,” I confess.
“I thought so. Come here.” He brandishes a thermometer in my direction. “Open up.”
I oblige, sliding the thermometer under my tongue. When it beeps, he draws it away. His eyebrows rise.
“A hundred and two.”
“That’s bad.”
“It’s pretty bad.”
“I think I got the plague,” I say.
“I don’t think it’s the plague. If I had to guess, it’s probably the flu.” His hand brushes against the side of my face. He feels so cold, I shiver and let out a sad moan. “Fever, chills, some body aches?”
I nod and sniffle.
“Think you can sit up?”
I push myself onto my elbows. My brain feels like it’ll melt out my ears, and I’m suddenly freezing again. As I go to slide out of his bed, he stops me. One of his hands catches my leg, a brush of cool fingers against my thigh. “Whoa, whoa, just enough to sit up and eat. You don’t have to go anywhere.”
But I do .
I don’t know how to explain to him that I cannot be a burden. Yet, something in the soft tone of his voice makes me question if I even need to explain it to him. Is this what people are supposed to do when they care?
I blink at him a few times as he disappears into the kitchen, holding his hands in a “stay” gesture like I am a poorly trained puppy. It takes a few minutes, but he returns to the room with a bowl of steamy soup and passes it to me. Even though the chicken noodle soup is clearly out of a can, it’s one of the nicest things anyone’s done for me in a while.
It’s up there with Nora offering to sacrifice her liver as we down a bottle of wine and watch reality TV whenever I have a bad day.
I wordlessly slurp at the soup until the bowl is finished. Hayden stays the whole time, taking notes on his phone and doing research.
“I don’t want you to get sick, either,” I whisper.
“I’ll take an extra Flintstones vitamin tomorrow.” Hayden takes the bowl from me and puts it in the kitchen. When he returns, he has a bottle of NyQuil in hand. “Here.”
I frown. “You’re trying to drug me.”
“With love, though.”
Love.
Okay then.
Nevertheless, I take the cup of NyQuil from him, and as I am this close to tossing it back like it’s tequila in a frat house basement, a brutal cough rips through my chest and ravages my whole body. As I go to cover my mouth with my elbow, sticky liquid douses my hair and runs down one of my cheeks. It smells like Vicks VapoRub and death. I smell like Vicks VapoRub and death.
“Oh no,” Hayden mutters. He carefully reaches over me, plucking the cup off his comforter and setting it on the nightstand. Thankfully, I haven’t gotten medicine all over his bed, the bed he still needs to sleep in tonight.
My bottom lip trembles.
I’m sticky.
I’m sick.
So, naturally, I start crying.
Thankfully, it isn’t the first time Hayden’s seen me cry, but it’s far more embarrassing than last time. I am sweaty, my hair’s a mess, and I’m covered in blue cold medicine goo.
“Come here,” Hayden instructs, rising from the bed and extending his hand. My sticky fingers slip between his. When we reach his bathroom, he quickly takes out a washcloth and dampens it. I sit on the toilet seat, still frowning, still crying.
Hayden crouches, barely fitting in the scant space between the toilet and the sink. I can hardly smell the musky amber of his cologne through my snotty nose, so I register everything else about him as he dabs at my cheek. On good days, his eyes remind me of spring mornings, bright and vibrant. Sometimes, when we’re up late, they darken to a deep forest of endless evergreens. Now, we’re somewhere in the middle. It’s a soft sage with those notes of brown. It reminds me of cozy coffee shops, rain as it clears, a sharp breeze between tree branches.
“Your bathroom’s clean.”
Jesus . I’ve been saying dumb shit to him all day, but the bemused look on his face tells me he doesn’t care. That, perhaps, he likes it.
“Is it usually not?”
“No,” I say. “You are an anomalous man. Lots of guys don’t have toilet paper.”
Every one of his touches is so gentle it makes me shake like a leaf. “There are even extra rolls in the linen closet.”
“You have a linen closet,” I whisper.
“I sure do,” he whispers back. “Don’t tell anyone.”
I run a hand through my hair and catch sticky handfuls of NyQuil. The tears don’t come, but I try to shake the stickiness off, and it doesn’t work. He reaches for my hand, holding it carefully, wiping each finger, polishing me like a work of art. No one has ever been this careful with me. I’m sure my parents were—especially when I was a baby and it was important to not drop me on my head—but as an adult? Never. I try not to think of myself as fragile, but I like how Hayden cares enough to mind if I break.
“Do you want to wash your hair? You can shower if you want to.”
“I want to wash my hair. But I don’t want to stand up. And I don’t want to be naked. That’d be weird.”
Then…I’m magically thinking about him naked. I know enough about his body that my imagination can do the rest. I visualize soap sluicing around every curve of his muscles, racing down his arms over intricate ink, down his chest and stomach—
I jolt out of fever-dream horny-shower jail when he pushes open the shower curtain. I brace myself for horrifying beard shavings or soap bars melding into the porcelain, but it’s a relatively inoffensive bathtub-shower combo. A shower caddy hangs over the head, and I don’t have time to survey his products before he guides me to the side of the tub.
“Stay right there.”
Hayden returns moments later with a few throw pillows, stacking them on top of one another and patting them for me to sit on them. I wobble but steady as he leans me against the edge of the tub.
“What are you doing?”
“Helping you wash your hair.”
Oh no, the lip trembles return. “You don’t have to do that.”
“Are you sticky?”
I nod.
“Are you sad?”
Another nod.
“Then how about you let me help you? It’ll take five minutes.” I lean over the tub as he runs the water. When it’s warm, he cups a scoop in his hands, pouring it over my hair. And then another, and another, until my hair is fully damp. We could call it a day here, but that isn’t sufficient to Hayden, not as he stands and reaches for the shampoo from his caddy.
“I’m going to be using man shampoo,” I mutter.
“What does that mean?” He laughs.
“I’ll smell like something tough and manly—like cinder blocks.”
“…What?”
My eyes open, and Hayden’s right beside me, sleeves rolled up, watch discarded onto the sink. God, he is so handsome it concerns me. He’s six-foot-very-much of niceness and charming quirks that he might find embarrassing, but I’m left thinking about them long after I’ve left his apartment. I catch a scruff-hidden dimple revealing that no matter how plague addled I sound, he still wants to hear what I have to say.
“Never mind,” I say, anyway.
“Afraid I’m out of cinder block–scented shampoo, so—uh…” He looks down at the bottle. “Crisp Forest will have to do.”
“I mean, it’s not lemon verbena.”
He flicks a small splash of water at me. I shut my eyes as he squeezes shampoo into his hands and begins to lather it through my hair. He keeps one hand at the base of my head, supporting my neck, while the other weaves deep in my blue waves and traces circles into my scalp.
I feel everything about him with a delirious intensity. All I know is that NyQuil has nothing on the careful way Hayden massages shampoo into my hair—a soft press of fingers and even softer drag of his nails against my scalp. His breathing is deafening and lulls me at the same time.
“You know, you could just dunk me. It’s only fair, for all the dunking I do on your theories,” I say.
“It’s also how I get fired.”
“That’s not true. I can’t fire you. And besides, I need you.”
“Come on, there’re no other weirdos on the internet you’d prefer to work with?”
“No ,” I respond, all too fast.
It makes his eyebrows rise, and he stops shampooing my hair.
“Trust me,” I correct.
“We need each other,” he says.
I nod slowly. Hayden chews on his lower lip, drawing my eyes there. I imagine the taste of him comes with the prickly bite of his beard and samples of heady sighs from the back of his throat. Everything about him screams safety. Someone who didn’t care wouldn’t offer me his bed, make me soup, or wash my hair when I’ve poured cold medicine into it. He’s had so many chances to hurt me or hold things against me, but instead he just keeps giving me more.
His focus shifts back to my hair, fingers kneading circles against my scalp again. Back and forth, round and round, like he’s learning each inch of me because he wants to. My watch sends me a high heart rate notification, a soft buzz at my wrist. If questioned, I’ll say it’s the fever working its way through me, but I know it’s the soft touch of his fingertips against my neck and the way he’s looking at me.
Hayden’s stare lingers on me for another long, breath-snatching moment before he clears his throat and reaches across the tub to turn on the faucet again. Again, he takes gentle scoops of water to rinse the shampoo out of my hair.
“What is your natural hair color?”
“I have eyebrows, don’t I?”
Hayden rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but I know people with blond hair who have brown eyebrows.”
“Do I seem like a blond to you?” He remains silent. “Are blond girls your type?”
I am an embarrassment.
Absolute buffoonery.
“Bold question, Nonbeliever.” He laughs. “Rest assured, you’re the only woman in my life right now.”
A smile tugs at his lips, like he’s trying to reveal something to me in the gentlest way he can. Yet it crashes into me like a train. Obviously, he likes me. He wouldn’t have nearly kissed me if he didn’t. But to say it…It’d back up all the action. I would have no way to disbelieve him. What he does and what he says are so aligned. “Unless you count the Loch Ness Monster.”
I break into a laugh, and I am so grateful he’s going to ruin the moment so I don’t have to. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“So much. You tell me all the time,” he says.
By the time we stop laughing, he’s rinsed the shampoo out of my hair and grabs a towel. I wrap it around my hair and sit against the wall of the tub with him. Our shoulders brush, and he looks like he’s physically restraining his hands. I wish he weren’t. I want them all over me. It’s so easy to see Hayden as a normal—okay, kind of normal—man who is my friend and who takes care of me and looks out for me. It’s easy to see him as the kind of person I could fall in love with.
But if this gets messy, if this falls apart, I lose him and my job at the same time. He holds too much in his hands for me to let them wander all over my body like I want them to.
I’m suddenly not so afraid to lose just my job. I’d be terrified to lose him, too.
I study the brush of his tongue along the inside of his lips, lean closer when his thumb runs along the slant of my jaw.
My god, he wants to kiss me so bad he’s willing to risk catching the plague.
So I break the unbearable silence by fake-coughing. Then it turns into real-coughing, which hurts, and I whimper into the bend of my elbow.
Hayden stands and extends a hand to me. In his room, he offers me another dose of NyQuil that I do not spill on myself.
“I can stay on the couch,” I murmur.
“No, you can’t.”
“Oh?”
“Cthulhu might eat you.”
“Where are you going to sleep?”
“Couch.”
“Cthulhu might eat you,” I say.
“He won’t eat me. I’m his human.”
“Right.”
“I’m going to change into something more comfortable, then my room is all yours.”
As he riffles through his singular IKEA dresser, I pipe up. The NyQuil is beginning to hit me, and in the menthol haze of it, I want Hayden’s warmth next to me and to know he’s right there. If he leaves, I’m going to spend hours thinking about him on the couch, picturing him curled up with his cat in cute pajama bottoms in a way that will make me feel so fuzzy. “Can you stay?”
He turns. “Stay?”
“Here? I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I don’t mind.”
His gaze softens. “I…yeah, I can stay. Give me a second.”
He dips out of the room and returns a few minutes later in another pair of patterned pajama pants, these ones with dinosaurs on them. I hate how cute it looks. When he takes the other side of the bed and stretches out, the bottom of his T-shirt lifts, exposing a thin strip of skin and the waistband of his boxers. One side of his body pale and untouched, the other covered in dark, wiry ink, leading beneath his pants. He smells like minty toothpaste and plain face wash, and years come off his face as he removes his glasses.
As a coughing fit shakes me and tears at my throat, I grasp for comfort. Hayden doesn’t object when I choose him. I let out a sad snivel as the choking stops, and he drapes his arm down my back, an affirmation that he wants me close too.
I pick my head up. My vision is blurry and we’re on equal footing.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For?”
The fact that he has to ask…
“Taking care of me.”
He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t care. He tried to kiss me, and I said no, and he still wanted to wash my hair and offer me his bed to ride out my sickness in. He’s still here and nothing has changed. Except for maybe the way I feel so much less scared to hand my heart over.
“Of course. I took care of my dad for five years. I think I can handle the flu—”
“Sure, but—”
“Come on, everyone deserves someone to take care of them when they’re sick.”
I struggle out a laugh and shake my head. “No one’s done this for me in a while. Like, not since I was a kid. So…thanks.”
“No ‘good nights,’ no one to make you soup or give you cold medicine?” He gapes. “Who’s been taking care of you this whole time?”
“Me.”
But I wonder the same about him. Who’s taking care of him while he’s taking care of everyone else? Is there anyone Hayden can turn to when he needs help?
“You can consider yourself off duty for a little while,” Hayden murmurs.
There’s such simplicity to those words, but they make me confident enough to clutch his T-shirt harder, tug myself closer, and shut my eyes. It makes him confident enough to hold me back and turn on his side.
“Wake me up if you need anything,” he says. I want to melt, and so I do. Into him. I don’t need much more than the sound of him breathing, the soft brush of his fingers against the small of my back, and the way his head rests on top of mine as I drift off to sleep.
It’s an almost-snuggle, an almost-kiss to the top of my hair, an almost-admission, and it makes me think I’m almost brave enough to do something about it.