Page 37 of In the Net
I’ve never seen him like this before. Eyes closed, glasses off, no stupid smirk on his face. Peaceful. Not trying to prove something, whether to himself or the people around him. Uncomfortable, because he spent the night in a crappy hotelroom chair instead of his own bed, because he was worried about me.
A tender feeling expands in my chest. He really wasted his entire day yesterday looking after me.
My memories of the last two days are still hazy. I started feeling sick early in the afternoon the day before yesterday, right after seeing off some of the graduate students I became friendly with at the train station. The conference ended the day before, but Brumehill booked our tickets and accommodations so we could stay a couple extra days.
By that evening, I was bedridden. Too sick to eat anything, too tired to even get up and get a drink of water. All I did was lie in bed, hardly able to crawl to the bathroom when I needed to go.
Did Sebastian really climb through my window to check on me? Or did he just ask someone at the front desk to come in and check on me, and I just imagined that more dramatic scenario? Did he really go out to get me tomato soup, remembering it’s my favorite from when we went to middle school together? Surelythat’sjust something I dreamed, right?
And the very moment before I fell asleep last night, after we watched that movie together, did I also dream the words he said to me?
Whatever details of yesterday I’m remembering rightly or wrongly, there’s no doubt that Sebastian gave up his day to take care of me. The least I can do is force myself out of bed and bring him up a coffee, and make sure he doesn’t waste his very last day in Paris.
I struggle out of bed. I pull on a pair of sweatpants and a sweater to go downstairs and bring us up two coffees from the lobby.
Ugh, I feel so gross after not showering for two days. That’s the first item on the list after I get Sebastian out of my room.
Stepping back into my room, I make sure to close the door loudly, which does the job of jolting Sebastian awake.
“Morning,” I say.
He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, stretching his neck to loosen it. “You’re up? How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I say, holding out the coffee to him. He slides his glasses on before taking it from me, and the look of his puffy, still-sleepy eyes behind his lenses makes my stomach do a weird motion.
Actually, let’s just say that’s because I’m not used to being on my feet. Much more comforting explanation.
“Tired, though,” I continue. The truth of that statement is confirmed by my need to plop myself onto my bed. “I think I’ll be spending today resting in bed, too. But you need to get out and do something with your last day here.”
There’s a look of hesitancy on his face as he slowly sips his hot coffee.
“Really,” I say, eager to assure him. “I’ll be fine today. I feel well enough to get up and get myself whatever I need. Thanks for yesterday, really, but I don’t want you wasting another day because of me.”
He rolls his lips. “If you’re sure …”
“Positive.”
Some doubt still lingers on his face. I must have been in a bad state yesterday, to make Sebastian even consider spending any more time in this room with me when all of Paris is right on our doorstep.
“I got out of bed and got us coffee. If I can do that, I can look after myself.”
“Alright,” he says, not without some reluctance. “But take my number and text me if you need anything or start to feel worse again.”
My stomach leaps like I’m on a rollercoaster. Since I’m sitting on my bed, it’s a lot harder to use the comforting explanation of not being used to being on my feet again.
“I don’t think we need to?—”
“Harper.” He interrupts me with a firm and commanding tone, no nonsense in the gaze that rests heavy on me. I swallow thickly.
“Fine,” I relent.
After he gives me his number and I add him to my phone—every intention of deleting the contact when we get back to Cedar Shade—Sebastian finishes off the last of his coffee and stands up from his chair.
“Guess I’ll go to the Musée d’Orsay today. Don’t want to waste a couple hours waiting in line for a ticket to the Louvre.”
Guilt prickles over me as I remember how he gave up his timed entry to the Louvre to take care of me yesterday.
“You know, a lot of people say the Musée d’Orsay is better than the Louvre.”
