Page 74 of Perfectly Complicated
Something’s wrong with Aria.She’s been crying for over an hour—not her usual cranky-tired cry, but something desperate that makes my stomach twist with worry. The Crushers game plays in the background as I pace the living room, cradling her in my arms. She’s been sick all day—coughing, congested, feverish—but her cry puts my mother’s instincts on edge.
My attention shifts to the TV screen, where I catch Rourke gliding across the ice.
“And Riley with a beautiful pass to MacPherson…” the announcer says moments before an opponent slams him into the boards with a sickening thud. My body tenses as I suck in a breath.
Please be okay.
When I open my eyes, he’s flying down the ice again. When did his safety become something that could almost stop my heart?
Since he became something more than my roommate.
Aria wails again, and when I press my lips to her forehead, her skin burns.
Carrying her to the changing table, I fumble for the digital thermometer with one hand while she fusses inconsolably. Thenumbers climb as my stomach pitches.Please don’t let it get too high. Not like last time.
A memory crashes over me—Aria at four months old, her fever spiking to 105 degrees. Then that terrifying moment her tiny body stiffened and started convulsing in my arms. It was the most horrific sixty seconds of my life, watching my baby have a febrile seizure while I felt completely helpless to stop it.
The tears were streaming as I begged for the seizure to stop, convinced she was going to die and I’d lose the only good thing left in my world. And that was worse than my marriage falling apart—a reality I didn’t know if I could survive.
Afterward, the doctors told me she was fine, but that I’d need to watch for seizures if she ever spiked another high fever.
“It’s okay, sweetie. Mama’s here,” I whisper, but it doesn’t help the worried feeling inside me.
I lay a cool washcloth on her forehead, but she thrashes and flings it away, crying harder. Nothing helps. Not rocking or even the gentle bouncing that usually soothes her. She’s miserable, which means I’m miserable too.
The crowd’s roar from the TV snaps my attention back to the game just as the camera zooms in on the goal. Someone scored, sending the game into overtime. The camera zooms in on Rourke’s face—helmet off, his sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead as he grins at his teammates.
“Riley with the game-tying goal!” the announcer shouts, and despite my sick baby and exhaustion and worry—I feel a flutter of pride.My man scored.The thought wraps around me like a warm blanket. Only a few months ago, I was convinced I’d never feel this way about anyone again. Even if I was wrong, I knew I’d never be someone’s first choice.
Now this incredible man doesn’t just want me—he wants every piece of us, the messy beautiful reality of what we are as a family.
Aria cries again, this time her voice weaker. “Oh, sweet baby,” I murmur, stroking her forehead. She’s so hot against my skin, soI take off her clothes down to her diaper and search the medicine cabinet for infant pain reliever.
My heart sinks when I find the nearly empty bottle—barely enough for half a dose. I give her what’s left while calculating the drive to the nearest 24-hour pharmacy. Thirty minutes each way in the cold with a crying, feverish baby.
On the TV screen, an image flashes: a player takes a hard hit on the ice and falls. Bodies crowd around him. A few players throw off their gloves.
“That looks bad,” the announcer says.
I squint to see it better. Some kind of scuffle is breaking loose on the ice, players pushing and shoving near the goal. My heart stops when I see Rourke in the middle of it, lying on the ice.
For a few seconds, I can’t tear my eyes away from the scene. He lies motionless on the ice, sticks and fists flying all around him.
I have to know if he’s okay.
For what feels like endless seconds, he doesn’t move while the brawl rages around him and referees work to get it under control. I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but stare at the screen and pray.
Let him be all right.
Finally, he pushes himself up, shaking it off before lifting a glove to his fans. Relief floods through me so hard, my chest loosens and I inhale.
The camera zooms in on Rourke leaving the ice with a cut near his eye and a slight limp. But he’s moving.He’s okay. And soon, he’ll be home.
I sink down onto the couch. I need Rourke here. Not just want—needhim. Someone to tell me I’m not crazy for worrying, or that yes, we should take Aria to urgent care.
The next hour is torture. Every minute feels like ten. When your baby’s burning up and you don’t know why, time moves differently. Every whimper from Aria sends my anxiety spiking.Should I drive to the pharmacy? Let her sleep?
I’ve been making these decisions alone for so long, alwayssecond-guessing myself. Always wondering if I’m overreacting or not reacting enough.
