Page 59 of Away We Go

“Here, get back into bed.”

He guides me back under the fresh covers and pulls the blanket up under my chin, tucking me in as snug as a bug.

“I’ve ordered you some soup. Chicken soup,” he says while laying his hand on my forehead. It feels cool against my fevered skin, and I sigh with relief at his touch.

“You’re burning up.”

Yes. ‘Tis true.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Hard to say. What day is it?”

His frown grows deeper. “It’s Sunday.”

I bolt upright. “Sunday! That’s right.” I look at the now blank TV screen. “Did you win?”

He gently pushes me back down to my pillow. “I did.”

“Yay!” I wince and cough. He frowns some more. “Yay,” I repeat more softly. “Congrats, Nicky.”

“Let’s not worry about that. I think we need to take you to a doctor.”

The thought of leaving this bed sounds terrible. “I’ll be fine after I rest.”

I can see the indecision written all over his face. “Fine, but if you get any worse, we’re going.”

“Sure.” I snuggle down into my fresh sheets. It feels nice against my skin.

“Do you want to sleep now? Or eat?”

My stomach revolts. I guess soup is off the table again. “I think I need to sleep.”

He hovers over me next to my bed, his concerned eyes running over me, and I grab his hand before he can move away. “Can you stay?”

I know I sound weak and pathetic, but there’s nothing like being alone when you’re sick. It makes everything feel ten times worse.

“Of course I’m going to stay.”

He drags an armchair from across the room and places it next to the bed, while I swallow down any disappointment that he chose not to join me in this bed.

You’re a snotty, sweaty, gross, sick person, Cherry. Of course he’s going to sit next to the bed.

“You sleep. I’ll be right here.”

I want to thank him. To tell him he can leave once I fall asleep. To remind him he’s just won a Formula 1 Grand Prix and must be exhausted. And to say that I know he must have somewhere else more important to be. But I don’t say any of these things.

Instead, I drift off to sleep while playing on repeat the fact that he called me sweetheart.

• • • • •

A few hours or days later, I float back to consciousness. My head is no longer throbbing and when I open my eyes, the room is no longer swaying in front of me.

Progress.

I push up to sit and look at the man still sitting in his chair next to me. Nicky’s head is tilted back, his arms are folded across his broad chest, and his feet are crossed at his ankles up on the bed. He’s asleep.

Taking advantage of this moment in time, I let my gaze roam all over him. In normal circumstances, I allow myself just glimpsesof his beauty, but now that I’ve been given unfettered access just to look at him, I indulge like a starving person presented with a buffet.

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