Page 30 of Uxpectedly Ever After

"I doubt it." I take another step back and turn toward the produce so she gets the message. "Good seeing you, Haley. Take care."

I’m gone before she can try another angle, grabbing fresh dill and a lemon on the way to the checkout. With a clearer head than I’ve had in days, I realize I’m done letting Clover steer this situation. Brenna said it herself: show up. So that’s what I’m doing.

I pay for my groceries and my plan churns in my mind all the way home. Enough pretending. Enough letting Clover decide every rule. She’s got this idea that it meant nothing, or that I’m not the guy who can handle more. She’s wrong.

It's time to stop lying to myself. To her. To everyone.

The apartment’s quiet when I step inside—no shock there. She’s supposed to be at class for another hour. But then I hear a retching noise coming from the bathroom.

“Clover?” I set the grocery bags on the counter, heart pounding. “You okay?”

A fresh wave of gagging is my only answer. I hurry to the bathroom and push open the door.

She’s on her knees, hugging the toilet, hair stuck to her forehead. Sweat glistens on her pale cheeks. She looks miserable as hell.

“Get out!” she chokes, voice cracking between heaves. “I don’t…want you seeing me like this.”

I ignore her, kneeling beside her anyway. I scoop her hair off her face with one hand and rub her back with the other, letting her throw up again.

“It’s okay,” I say quietly, keeping my voice steady. “I’ve got you.”

Seeing her so vulnerable rips a hole right through my chest. My pulse is thrashing, and my hands shake as I do the only thing I can—offer support.

She tries feebly to push me away, but another round of nausea hits and she doubles over. I hold her hair and keep my hand moving in slow circles across her spine, helpless anger and worry tangling in my gut.

Finally, she sags against the toilet, exhausted. I flush away the evidence, then stand to wet a washcloth with cool water. Dropping back to my knees, I press it to her forehead, fighting the urge to gather her in my arms.

“What are you doing?” she whispers, eyes scrunched shut.

“Taking care of you.” My thumb skims across her cheek, brushing a stray strand of hair aside. “How long’s this been going on?”

“Started during class,” she admits, eyes squeezing shut at another wave of nausea. She leans into the cool cloth I’m pressing against her forehead, but it’s like she hates needing it. “I figured I’d get home and ride it out before you got back.”

“So I wouldn’t see you like this?” I can’t keep the hurt from creeping into my voice. “Clover, I don’t care if you’re puking your guts out—I care that you’re sick.”

She opens her eyes, and the raw vulnerability there twists a knife in my chest. “I hate being weak.”

“Being sick isn’t weak; it’s human.” Gently, I guide her upright, my arm steadying her when her legs wobble. She gives in, leaning against me. “Come on, rinse your mouth, then we’ll get you on the couch.”

She must feel like absolute hell, because she doesn’t argue. Five minutes later, she’s tucked under a blanket, a mixing bowl nearby just in case. I’m in the kitchen heating water for ginger tea and rummaging up saltines like my mom used to give mewhen I had a stomach bug as a kid. The memory makes me smile; I haven’t thought about it in years.

When I come back, she’s curled in on herself, looking a little pathetic. Something inside my chest tightens at the sight, this fierce protectiveness and possessiveness knot together with everything else I feel for her.

“Here.” I set the tea and crackers on the coffee table, then sit beside her. “Ginger should help your stomach.”

She blinks up at me, eyes glassy. “Why…why are you doing this?”

“What do you mean?”

“Taking care of me. You don’t have to.” She tries to sit up, and I immediately slip an arm behind her shoulders, supporting her. “I’m not asking you to, okay? I don’t need—”

Her words cut, but I push past it. Tonight’s obviously not the time to lay out all the feelings I’ve been obsessing over, but I can give her something. “Maybe I need to, ever think of that?”

She stares, clearly thrown by my honesty.

“Drink,” I say quietly, pressing the mug into her hands. “Small sips.”

For once she listens, and that’s how I know she must feel like shit. She watches me over the rim of the mug, her expression impossible to read. After a few careful swallows, she sets it down and sinks into the cushions, exhaustion radiating from every line of her body.

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