Page 77 of Conflagration
After getting a cool rag to place on her head, I grab her phone off the nightstand, knowing that, since she was the one to make all our appointments after the accident, she’d most likely have the doctor’s number. When the screen lights up, I’m surprised to see four missed calls. Curiosity gets the better of me, and even though I know I shouldn’t go through her phone, I tell myself that I’m just checking to make sure it’s not someone important trying to get ahold of her.
The call log appears, and my blood boils as soon as I see Benjamin’s name several times in a row. Why the fuck would he be calling her now? And why hasn’t she told me? A moan comes from the bed, and I grimace, knowing that this isn’t the time to deal with why this asshole’s name is appearing on her phone. Even as I make the call to the doctor, a sense of unease washes over me and I have no idea why.
THE DOCTOR determines that Ariana has the flu and gives us a prescription for Tamiflu as well as list of instructions for her. During the entire appointment, she’s lethargic, which the doctor attributes to her fever of 102. He orders me to monitor her fever then sends us on our way.
“Branson, I’m okay. I can walk,” she protests when I place my arm around her and try to help her to the car. “I have the flu. Not a broken leg.” A coughing fit ensues, and she looks up at me sheepishly. “Okay, fine.”
“Come on. Let’s get you home.”
Once I settle her in bed, she doesn’t even protest when I insist she get some rest. Her head barely hits the pillow before her eyes shut and the sound of her breathing changes, indicating that she’s out cold. Leaning against the doorframe, I look at her. She’s pale and vulnerable.
So much for our exciting weekend at home.
The thought makes me feel like a jackass. We’ve spent the majority of our relationship holed up in the house, with her taking care of me, so this is my turn to reciprocate. Finally, I can be the one to take care of her.
Pulling out my phone, I call Mom as I head to the kitchen. As I wait for her to answer, I start looking through the pantry.
“Hey, honey,” Mom’s cheerful voice fills my ear.
“Mom, I need your help,” I say briskly, and I hear her talking to my dad before coming back to the phone.
“What is it, Branson?”
“Ariana has the flu. She has a fever and the doctor says she’s dehydrated. I need to run to the store to get her prescription and some liquids. I need your chicken noodle soup recipe.”
“Oh no. That’s awful. I think I have all the ingredients here. I’ll just pack them up and be right over.”
“No!” I say a little too forcefully. “I mean, no, Mom. She’s been taking care of me all this time. I want to do the same for her. Ineedto do this.”
With a sigh, she relents. “Okay, honey. I understand. How about I just come sit with her while you’re gone?”
“I appreciate it, Mom, but I think she’ll be okay. She fell asleep as soon as we got home. I won’t be gone long. I’ll leave her a note to let her know where I’m going. If she wakes and needs anything, she knows you’re close.”
“That works. How about I text you the recipe so you have the list right there with you?”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks, Mom.”
“Any time. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
MY HEAD’S throbbing when I wake up, and I can’t stop shivering even though I feel like a sweaty mess. When I let out a cough, my throat is scratchy, my mouth incredibly dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand and see that it’s nearly eight p.m., and I groan, having slept away have the day.
I was in the living room, on my laptop, looking through job postings, when I started to feel dizzy. The past few days, I’ve felt chilled, and I could tell I was coming down with something, but it seemed to hit me all at once today. I took some ibuprofen and crawled into bed, my body achy all over.
When Branson came home, I was extremely grateful. As much as I didn’t want to leave the bed, I knew that going to the doctor was the best idea, but hell if I didn’t climb right back into bed when we got home.
The room is dark, and there’s no sight of him. I get out of bed and go to his drawers, pulling on a pair of his sweats and slipping a hoodie over my head as I try to stop shivering. In the bathroom, I splash water over my face, wincing at my pale reflection. Dark circles highlight my eyes. My stomach rumbles, which I assume is a good sign, so I dry my face and leave the room to go in search of Branson.
A warm, delicious aroma fills the air, and I follow the sounds of low music into the kitchen. Leaning against the doorframe, I smile at the sight of Branson at the stove, stirring something in a pot as he sings and moves his hips along to the sounds of Adam Levine. It’s reminiscent of the time when he walked in on me scrubbing the floors, and I take a moment to study him. I’m not too sick to appreciate his rolled-up sleeves, the jeans that make his ass look unbelievable, and his bare feet. Barefoot and in the kitchen is a damn good look on him.
As the song changes, I clear my throat, both out of necessity and to alert him to my presence. He whips around quickly, a wooden spoon in his hand. His eyes soften when he sees me.
“Baby, what are you doing out of bed?” he asks in an authoritative tone.
I move to the kitchen island and sit on one of the stools as I curl up in the hoodie. “I’m thirsty.” My stomach growls. “And starving.”
“Want some hot tea?” he asks, and I nod. “I’ve got Mom’s chicken noodle soup on the stove. It was a staple in our house growing up when any of us were sick.”
