Page 127 of How You See Me
But right now, I can do nothing.
I know Hayes doesn’t want me to see him like this. It’s too soon in our relationship to cross that line. Or maybe he’s still clinging to the idea that he has to be the strong one. But he carried me when I was a hot mess in Nashville, covered in public bathroom grime and vomit, and took care of me afterward. No hesitation, no ego. Just tender attention. I want to do the same for him.
After ten minutes and still no sign that he hasn’t passed out on the side of the road, my worry overrides respect for boundaries. I tiptoe around the van to check on him.
If I weren’t so concerned, his big frame slumped against the van like a comic strip might make me giggle. He leans against the bumper, back curved forward and head drooping, hands palm-up in the dirt. His legs are sprawled out, one foot dug in the gravel, shorts bunched up around thick, pale thighs. His shirt drapes haphazardly across his waist, sweat glistening on his chest and forehead. The empty water bottle rests inches from his fingers.
He’s beautiful. And wrecked. And making my heart hurt.
“You poor thing.” I head back to the van and search the cabinets for crackers or anything that might help. But all I find is my stash of sugary snacks and the box of organic protein bars he likes that taste like bird food.
“Shiitake.” I snatch another bottle of water and get back to him. “We need to get you some electrolytes,” I announce gently, kneeling beside him.
He takes the bottle but doesn’t open it. “Do we have any crackers?”
“No.” I survey the empty expanse of desert and asphalt around us. No resources to sustain life or help a sick man recover within range. “We need to get to a store. Can you stand?”
“Probably.” Using the bumper for support, he pushes himself up, careful and unsteady.
I dip under his arm. I’m not strong enough to hold him up, but I want him to feel me there. That he’s not alone.
“Get back,” he says suddenly, gently nudging me behind him as he doubles over again.
I wrap an arm around him. “I’m so sorry, Hayes. I wish I could do something.”
He squeezes my arm in response, a silent acknowledgement that he appreciates the sentiment.
When the worst of it passes, he leans against me.
“You might have to drive to the store.”
“What?” I heard him but couldn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction from popping out of me.
“You drove the go-karts,” he reminds me, exhaling a frustrated sigh—not at me, I know, but at his own weakness. He hates asking me. I can feel it in his body and the tension still clinging to him.
But right now, he needs me to be brave for him.
Go-karts and vans are not the same, my mind protests, but I push the thought aside.
“You can do it.” He makes the butterfly shape with his hands and taps on his chest. His way of helping me stay calm and think and breathe. “I’ll be right beside you.”
Dang. Why does he have to be so thoughtful . . . even now? It makes me want to be the person he thinks I am. The best version of Josie Jones.
“I believe in you.”
“Yeah, well.” I swallow down my fear. “I believe in us, so that will have to do for now.”
I can do this. Right? I know the process. It’s not difficult.
The words loop in my head as we shuffle to the passenger side and load Hayes’ heavy body into the seat. Once he’s settled, I roll the window down and close the door before making my way to the driver’s side.
Driver. That’s me.
My fingers tremble on the warm metal handle, stomach churning. Maybe I’m getting sick, too. Maybe we should wait. We could lie in each other’s arms for the next twenty-four hours and ride it out. Then, Hayes can drive us to our next destination.
How long does it take to get over a bug or food poisoning or whatever he has.
But nice as that sounds, I know we can’t. He’s colorless, sweating, and too weak to hold his head up. He needs nourishment. Needs me to come through as heso often has for me.
