Page 61 of Heart Strings & Hotlines
Telling him that Mr. Sharkton already has a basket started feels like too much work.
Somewhere in the store, Mrs. Perez and Mrs. Sharkton bicker about the best kind of soup, while Mr. Abboud tells them soup isn’t what I need.
I’ll sit here for a moment and gather my strength. Then I’ll tell them that I really only came in for ginger ale and some cough drops.
I start to fall and jerk awake just before sliding to the floor. At my feet are three baskets overflowing with everything from saltines and four different brands of soup to fresh ginger and a heating pad.
“Ah…”
“Oh, good. You’re awake,” Mrs. Sharkton says from a chair next to me.
She’s knitting, my head is pounding, and I’m more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.
“You fell asleep, and we didn’t want to disturb you. Took your temperature while you were out too. It’s real high, Lottie, so you needed the little nap. Here, drink this.” She holds up a bottle of orange Gatorade with a straw sticking out the top and presses it to my lips.
Unsure of what to do, I take a sip.
“You let me sleep? In the middle of the first aid aisle in the general store?” Maybe I’m hallucinating.
“Well, what would you have me do? You’re sick, child. You need rest, and we needed to get your supplies.”
This is why I love this place. This is the most ridiculous thing anyone has ever done for me, but they do it because they care. You can’t make up the shit that happens in Sweetbriar, Tennessee—no one would believe it.
“Herald will pull your car around when you’re ready, and Leroy will follow him to give him a ride home after they unload your wellness wares.” She nods at my feet.
I can’t begin to imagine what I’m supposed to do with gingerroot, and I’m too tired to ask.
“Thank you. I just want to climb into my bed.”
“Herald,” she shouts. “The patient’s ready.”
“She didn’t sleep long.” Mr. Sharkton hums in disapproval. “You need rest and fluids. You have your keys, Lottie?”
“I can drive myself, really.” But my eyelids fall heavily, so I give in. Reaching into the pocket of my sweatshirt, I pull out my car keys and hand them to him. “Thank you.”
Mrs. Sharkton helps me stand. “Piece of advice?”
I nod since she’s going to say her piece no matter what I say.
“Let Thane in. Men like him want to protect. He’ll think he’s a failure if you don’t let him help when you need it. And Lottie?”
I peer up at her even as my head swims.
“We all need help sometimes. Even strong, independent women. Asking for help and trusting you’ll receive it is one of the strongest things we can do because we’re admitting to being vulnerable and trusting someone to be there for us. Thane may be an unorthodox boyfriend, but I knew when I saw him at Sandy Shae’s yesterday, picking out earrings as if they were an engagement ring, that his alpha exterior was shielding a big gooey center.”
I can’t even picture Thane at Sandy’s shop, and if I didn’t think my head would explode, I’d smile. He must have hated all the beeswax candles and incense.
“I’m sure whatever he chose for Kara was perfect,” I say absentmindedly.
Mrs. Sharkton’s brows rise, but she doesn’t say anything as she walks me out to my car, and for that I’m grateful. My energy is depleted, and I just want my bed.
“Your chariot awaits.” Mr. Sharkton has the passenger door open, and the second I’m seated, he shuts it behind me.
I press my hot face to the cool glass and close my eyes. When I open them again, I’m home.
Everything aches as I crawl upstairs with a bag of medicine dangling from my wrist.
I don’t remember the last time I was this sick. It’s miserable.
