Chapter 21 #2
His expression changes, but his voice stays low. “Like what?”
I shake my head, then close my eyes for a second.
The fever makes everything too bright, too close, too honest. “I know we have to do it,” I say, my voice starting to wobble a little as the words spill out.
“I know that. But it has to be different this time. It has to be clinical. No—no making it feel like something else. Just the treatment.” I open my eyes and force myself to look at him.
Andrew’s face has gone completely still.
Somewhere outside the door, a cart rolls by. A nurse speaks softly to someone down the hall.
For a second, I think he might ask what I mean. Instead, he gives one short nod.
“If that’s what you need.”
Dr. Shaw comes back in, and after that, everything becomes procedure.
Consent, first. Apparently, there’s a form now.
An actual form RHV partners have to fill out, because nothing says life-threatening fever like paperwork.
Dr. Shaw brings it over on a clipboard and asks if I understand what is about to happen.
If I agree to proceed. If I know I can stop at any point.
I answer yes because I do understand. I do agree.
I want to live. I also want to crawl out of my own body and leave it for someone else to manage, but unfortunately, that does not appear to be one of the available options.
So I take the pen and sign my name at the bottom.
The room is prepared, and Dr. Shaw explains what will happen in a voice so calm and professional it almost makes the whole thing worse. Andrew listens without interrupting, his face closed, his hands at his sides.
The actual treatment is exactly what I asked for.
It’s clinical and efficient.
His touch stays precise, controlled, impersonal. He asks once if I’m okay, and I say yes and then stare at the ceiling until the white tiles blur.
It takes a while, but eventually my body responds.
The fever breaks in stages. First the worst of the heat loosens its grip on my skull. Then the pressure behind my eyes eases, and the monitor beside the bed steadies into a calmer rhythm.
Physically, it worked.
Emotionally, it is one of the worst things I have ever done.
When it’s over, Andrew steps back immediately. Exactly the way I asked him to.
Dr. Shaw returns, checks the monitors, says the numbers are improving, says I’ll need to stay the night for observation. Her voice is gentle, but I can barely hear her over the ringing silence between Andrew and me.
After she leaves again, he stands near the door. “Your fever is coming down,” he says.
“Yeah.”
His anger is gone now, or at least buried. What’s left looks almost worse.
“Don’t do that again.”
I swallow. “Okay.”
He reaches for the door handle. “I mean it, Carly.” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. The door closes softly behind him as he leaves the room.
A minute later, Annie comes back in. Her eyes go straight to my face. Then to the monitor. Then back to me. “You look less dead,” she says.
I laugh, but it comes out thin. “Thanks.”
She sits down in the chair beside the bed and takes my hand. Her grip is warm and solid and not clinical at all. For a second, neither of us says anything.
Then she squeezes my fingers. “You scared the shit out of me.”
I look toward the door Andrew disappeared through.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Gray light slips through the blinds. The room smells of disinfectant and plastic, and for a few seconds I let myself pretend I’m here for something normal. A sprained ankle. A weird headache that turned out to be mild dehydration. A dramatic but ultimately harmless fainting episode.
Not because I got medically jerked off by my boss last night.
Annie is asleep in the chair beside the bed, curled up in a hoodie, her arms crossed and her chin tucked to her chest. She looks exhausted and uncomfortable and vaguely murderous, even in her sleep. When I shift under the blanket, her eyes snap open.
“Morning,” I whisper.
She studies me like she needs to confirm I’m actually alive before deciding how mad to be. “You don’t look like a dying Victorian ghost child anymore.”
“Can’t be both a ghost and dying.”
Her mouth twitches, but it doesn’t turn into a smile. “Semantics.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then she reaches for the cup of water on the table and hands it to me. “Andrew left around six,” she says. “Dr. Shaw told him you were stable and that you were being kept for observation.”
I look down at the cup. “Okay.”
“He looked like shit, by the way.”
“It was early in the morning.”
“No.” Annie’s voice softens, but only a little. “Not tired shit. Scared shit.”
My throat tightens, so I drink the water instead of answering. All I can remember is his face as he walked in. The split second when something raw crossed it, and then the anger that took over.
What the hell were you thinking?
You could have died in your fucking sleep.
A knock sounds at the door before either of us can say another word. Dr. Shaw steps inside, a tablet tucked under one arm. “Good morning, Carly. How are you feeling?”
How is she still working? Is she some kind of vampire doctor who doesn’t need sleep?
Does she sparkle in the sun and have five adopted teenagers at home?
“Better.”
“Good. Your temperature is down, and your vitals have been stable for the last few hours.” She glances at Annie. “Would you mind giving us a minute?”
Annie looks at me. I nod.
“I’ll be right outside,” she says, then points at me. “No dying while I’m gone.”
“I’ll try to control myself.”
When the door closes behind her, Dr. Shaw pulls the chair closer and sits. Her expression is calm, but serious enough that my stomach sinks.
“I need to ask you something,” she says, then pauses for a moment. “Has Andrew done anything during the treatments that made you feel unsafe, pressured, or uncomfortable?”
My face heats instantly.
“No,” I say. Then, because the thought of her thinking that makes my chest twist, I say it again. “No. He hasn’t. Never.”
Dr. Shaw nods, but waits.
“That’s not—” I swallow and look down at the blanket. “It’s just very awkward.”
“I understand that your situation is complicated,” Dr. Shaw says, voice gentle. “But I also need to be very clear with you. Complicated doesn’t change the medical reality. Without treatment, you will get sick. And if the fever is left unchecked, you are likely to die.”
I stare at her.
She continues, a little more firmly. “Last night, your fever spiked very quickly, and it reached a level that concerns me. You weren’t mildly symptomatic for hours and then gradually getting worse.
According to Annie, you seemed fine when you went to bed, and a few hours later you could barely sit up. ”
My fingers tighten around the cup.
“For you, skipping the scheduled treatment is not an option,” she says. “Last night happened because you reached the point where treatment was due, and you chose to avoid it.”
I close my eyes.
“That can’t happen again,” Dr. Shaw says. “If the arrangement is becoming difficult for you, we can try to make changes to make this more bearable. Whatever you need. But avoiding treatment is not an option.”
I nod once.
She stands. “I’ll check on you again soon. If your next readings look good, you can go home later this morning.”
After she leaves, my eyes don’t leave the closed door.
Andrew did try to make changes last night. He made it clinical again. It was exactly what I asked for. I asked for it to feel like nothing. And then it did.
A minute later, Annie slips back in. One look at my face, and whatever anger she was still holding onto fades. “Bad?”
“She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know.”
Annie sits beside me and takes my hand. She doesn’t tell me I’m an idiot. She doesn’t say she warned me. She doesn’t ask what I’m going to do now.
Thank God.
Because I don’t know. I really, really don’t know.