Chapter 9 #2
“I’m sorry,” I say, backing away from her gently on the couch. Getting up, even though it pains me like I’m the one with the flu. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. I’ll go, but please call me—”
A sob rips from her body. “Don’t go!”
Emotion rushes through me faster than I can drop—carefully—beside her. I let her head fall back on my lap and brush the hair out of her face, my hands shaking now, my relief tangling with my nerves.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her, her cry of don’t go echoing through my body. “Have you taken anything for pain?”
Her whimper sounds like a no.
I reach down to my pharmacy bag, shake out two pain pills, and crack open a coconut water. She’s barely able to put the pills in her mouth and tip the drink up on her own. And she crashes back onto my lap before I can even put the cap back on.
I run my hands through her hair on instinct, trying to block out memories of my dad doing the same thing to my mom countless times when she had an infection.
In the silence of her living room, without a live social media audience to smile for or a twin to banter with, my heart feels like lead. Usually, I’d be cracking a joke or looking for a way to make her crack a smile, because that’s what I do. I’m a human light bulb.
But here, with Scottie so vulnerable, the light is flickering, and I’m afraid if it goes out, I’ll be useless to her.
How did my dad do this without losing that warm glow he’s always had?
He could have gold-medaled in caretaking. If I blink, I can see him on the edge of her bed on a thousand different quiet nights, stroking her hair while she slept, checking her vitals, making sure any new infection didn’t settle into her lungs. His love for her was so pure, so selfless, so kind.
After all those years of seeing such patient affection, I don’t know what else to do when someone I care for this much is sick.
I also don’t know how my dad handled watching my mom fade away, because even watching Scottie in pain is more than I can take.
After a few minutes, she makes a soft “mmm” sound. Then she whispers through cracked lips. “That feels good.”
“I’m glad,” I say softly, humbly. The idea that I’m bringing her relief—it’s an honor. “You should rest.”
“I’ve rested all day,” she says, eyes closed. “Wait, what day is it?”
“Monday.”
She tries to sit up, but then she moans and drops back down. “It’s Monday?” She gives a rough exhale. “I missed our meeting.”
“I brought the meeting to you,” I say. “That’s the only reason I’m here, obviously.”
She gives a weak laugh. At least, I think it’s a laugh. It could be another whimper. “Keep playing with my hair,” she murmurs.
I keep playing with her hair.
But Alma’s warning from days ago sounds in my ears: “If I find out you two cheat …”
Never, I promise myself, staring with so much longing, it’s pouring out of me.
I will pine and fall at this woman’s feet until she kicks me away.
I will bring her coffee and comfort and care for her when she’s sick.
I’ll be in the dugout, on the bench, waiting for her to put me in until she kicks me off the team.
But I will not cross an actual line.
I will not enter the game until she takes Jake out.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but it’s long enough that she dozes off. Long enough that I’m able to respond to texts and messages on my socials, edit some content, and even schedule my posts and reels for the week, all one-handed, only half looking at the screen.
Eventually, my stomach starts to growl. I had eggs and a vanilla protein cozy for breakfast, but I haven’t eaten since. I had plans to make Scottie chicken soup, but if she keeps sleeping, I may have to extricate myself from her.
Only, she’s clutching my sweatshirt in one hand, and although I won’t cross a line, I’m too much of a glutton for punishment to want this to end. It’s like her subconscious knows we belong together, even if her—I don’t know, consciousness? Whatever the opposite of subconscious is—doesn’t.
I like Scottie’s subconscious.
We only talked for two minutes, but her guard was down in a way I’ve never seen. It’s like her sickness has made her more open, willing to be vulnerable.
If only her subconscious would admit we’re perfect for each other.
No crossing lines. Getting her to admit she’s only dating Jake because he’s rich or good-looking—or whatever—is definitely crossing a line, I tell myself.
I stare at her beautiful colorless face while I stroke her hair like she asked. She’s asleep, so at least I don’t have to feel guilty for thinking things I’d never say out loud. The only person I’m hurting right now is me.
“Why are you dating him, Quinn?” The words slip out in a pained whisper as I stroke her hair.
“Because he needs me,” she mutters, and I stop in my tracks, eyes wide, hand frozen in her hair.
She’s awake? How long has she been awake? She rocks her head back and forth and whines just enough that I know she’s telling me to play with her hair again.
So I do.
I’m almost speechless. He needs her? That’s a terrible reason to be dating. Does she know that? I can’t convince her—won’t even try—but does she have someone in her life who will?
“Okay,” I say. It’s all I can manage.
“He always needs me,” she murmurs, like she’s circling back to something she hasn’t quite finished saying. “I’m his Bettyguard.”
Her voice is thin. Fragile.
A deep frown pulls at my mouth. “Quinn, you don’t have to explain yourself.”
“Yes, I do,” she says, sounding uneven and too soft.
“Whenever Jake gets in trouble, I’m collateral damage.
I thought if I was the best at everything, they’d care.
They didn’t. I tried rebelling in middle school.
No one noticed. Jake was always in crisis.
” Her head shifts again, a small, exhausted movement.
“The only time I got attention was if I was helping Jake.”
My hand stills for half a second.
Then keeps going.
“So I always help Jake,” she says, like she’s stuck in a stream of words and can’t find a way out. “When he needs someone to talk to the principal. When he breaks a window and needs someone to blame it on. When he hits on the GM’s wife—”
“He what?” I’ve asked it before I can stop myself, but she doesn’t seem to care. Not about anything.
“At Thanksgiving,” she says, yawning. “If he doesn’t fix his PR crisis before opening day, they’re sending him down to the minors.”
My eyes widen, but I don’t react. Not outwardly.
I can’t.
She wants to talk, and as much as this is killing me, I want to listen. I want an explanation. Something to make her and him make sense when it should be us.
“What does that have to do with you?” I ask so quietly, I’m not sure she can even hear me.
“I’m the PR fix.” She sighs and curls closer to me. “Nothing like fake dating the girl next door to make people fall in love with you.”
WHAT?
They’re fake dating?
A shout tries to burst out of my chest, but I swallow it.
I can’t react. Not even a little. Does she realize what she just said?
In my calmest voice, I say, “That must be hard.”
“It never used to be. It’s hard now because I like you so much.”
&#*@^%*#&$@*!!!
She likes me! She likes me so much it’s “hard” to fake date Jake!
“How awful,” I say, unable to stop grinning.
“It’s horrible,” she says. Then she rolls her head almost off my leg. “Is it hot? It is so hot. I’m dying here.”
Sweat is beading on her forehead. A quick glance at my watch tells me she’s due for more medicine.
She kicks off her blanket and wriggles out of her robe.
She has pajama pants and a cropped pajama shirt on under the robe, and when she stretches out across the couch, it rides up, showing more skin than I’m sure she’d be comfortable with. I tug the shirt down.
“Ugh,” she says, kicking her legs out. “You’re so perfect. Why do you have to be so perfect?”
My grin only spreads. I lean back into the couch, running my fingers through her hair. “I know. I’m sorry.”
She throws both arms back—one flops on the ground, the other almost hits my face before it falls across my chest, pinning me in a way that almost feels intentional.
Her breath comes in short spurts. “No you’re not.
You love it. With your smile and your …” She puffs her cheeks out.
“Coffee. It’s so … cute. Every day, I have a new favorite flavor. ”
The urge to press—to take advantage of her broken filter—is overwhelming. But it feels wrong to. I don’t want to push.
I mean I want to, but I won’t.
She thinks I’m perfect, after all.
“You should save your energy,” I tell her.
“Yeah, well you should sit there and look pretty.”
I cough a laugh, but she’s still going.
“I love coffee. Why do you have to get me such good coffee? You’re so … ugh. So determined. You’re impossible not to like.”
“Quinn—” I try to warn her.
“I like you so much, I hate it.” She kicks her legs out, spreads her arms out more. “It is so hot.”
“Here, it’s time for more medicine,” I say, my guilt subsiding the rest of the way, because I’m not even kind of pushing.
She’s volunteering.
I grab the pills and coconut water. “Sit up. You need to take this.”
She makes a whine of protest, and her closed eyes somehow look even heavier. Before I can move her, she’s fallen asleep again.
“Scottie,” I say, trying to rouse her. “Quinn.” But she’s out.
When she wakes an hour later and sits up, she takes the medicine and turns on a movie while I make my dad’s famous chicken soup with the ingredients Instacart just delivered.
Maybe I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself:
I smile the whole time.
I’m not delusional enough to think she’ll go to sleep tonight planning to break up with Jake for me.
But you’d better believe I’ll be here when she wakes up.