by Megan Hart
“Shit, I thought they weren’t leaving until tomorrow. So you’re alone? That’s no good.” He was already turning off the lights, locking the doors, and heading out to his car. “I’m on my way.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“I’m on my way,” Ilya said. “Don’t argue.”
He disconnected before she could protest more. He stopped at the pharmacy to pick up medicine, as many different kinds as he could find to cover all possible symptoms, along with a couple of boxes of tissues. He tossed a few gossip magazines into the basket in case she got bored with daytime TV. He stopped at the grocery store for chicken-noodle soup, juice, ginger ale, and saltines in case it turned into that sort of flu. He parked in Alicia’s driveway and, laden with bags, went to the front door.
“Ilya! Hi!”
“Hey, Dina,” he said as he put down some of the bags so he could test the front door. “How’s it going?”
“I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Shit, she was actually coming over. Ilya tugged the front door, but it was locked. There was a spare key in the flowerpot on the railing, but he didn’t have time to get it before Dina had crossed the lawn to the first porch stair.
“How’s it going?” he asked again, lamely.
“I’ve missed you,” Dina whispered with a shifty glance toward her own house. “Maybe you could come over later?”
“Oh, I’m busy later . . .”
“Sometime, then.” She eyed him as he rang the doorbell. “You should come over sometime.”
He heard the shuffle of something on the other side of the door. The click of the lock. He picked up the bags again and gave Dina a firm smile.
“I don’t think so, Dina.”
She sneered and crossed her arms. “Alicia isn’t home, you know. She went on a trip with your brother. They’re a couple now.”
“I know that,” Ilya said as the front door opened. “You think I don’t? Jesus, Dina. Enough. Okay?”
Theresa, looking like death warmed over, peered through the crack in the door. “What the hell is going on?”
“You’re here for her now?” Dina asked. “I get it. Boy, do I get it. You know what, Ilya, screw you!”
He pushed the door open wider, bags in hand. Theresa had already turned to shuffle away from him, toward the den. Ilya looked out the door, but Dina had already left, thank God. That was a mess he didn’t want to deal with now. Or ever. He closed the front door and took the bags to the kitchen table, then went to the den.
“Hey. How are you feeling?”
Theresa had gone back to the couch, her head on a pillow in a brightly patterned case, and a bunch of knitted afghans on top of her. She made a small noise in answer, kind of like a whimper, half a moan. She put her hands to her head and squeezed.
“Hey,” he said softly, as he sat on the edge of the couch near her knees. He put a hand on her, then withdrew it quickly. “Shit, babe, you’re burning up.”
She let out a small sigh and burrowed deeper into the pillow. “I took some medicine a few hours ago.”
“You need more. I’ll get it for you.” In the kitchen, Ilya set some soup on the stove to heat, then shook a few acetaminophen tablets into his palm and took them to her with a glass of water. Her eyes were closed when he came back, her breathing raspy. She was shivering even under the pile of blankets. “Hey. Theresa? Here.”
She sat up with a groan, her eyes ringed with dark circles and her hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks glistening with sweat. She took the glass and the pills from him but choked a little when she swallowed them. She clapped a hand over her mouth to hold back a gag, then shook her head with a grimace before sinking back onto the pillow.
Ilya rubbed her shoulder. “That’s going to help. I’ve got some soup heating up for you.”
“Not hungry.”
“Well, when you are. Do you want something else? Something to drink?” Slowly, he let his hand move over her. She was so hot, almost scalding him even through the layers of clothing. He should get her a thermometer, he thought.
“No. I want to go up to my bed, though. The couch is lumpy.” She sat up with one of those whimper moans and struggled with the blankets.
He was startled to see tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “Let me help you. Hey, shhh.”
“I haven’t felt this terrible in . . . ever,” she said with a small gasp.
“Let me help you,” Ilya repeated, and slipped an arm beneath hers to help her up. She sagged against him, and without thinking, he bent to lift her. Her head nestled perfectly against his shoulder, and he thought for sure she’d protest, but she only made another small sound as he carried her toward the stairs.
By the time he got her to the bed, his arms were aching and legs trembling, but he managed to settle her carefully onto it. He helped her get beneath the blankets but realized the pillow she’d been using on the couch was meant for the bed. He ran downstairs, turned off the soup, grabbed the pillow, and went back up.
She looked like she was sleeping, at least until he carefully tried to lift her head to place the pillow beneath it. Then she opened her eyes, her gaze unfocused. She put her hand on his wrist. She barely squeezed him before letting go.
He stroked her hair off her forehead. “What can I do for you?”
“Let me sleep.”
“Yeah. Okay.” Still worried, he felt her forehead. He couldn’t tell if it was cooler or not. “Are you sure I can’t bring you something to drink?”
“Water.” But when he tried to leave, she grabbed his wrist again. “Wait. Just sit with me for a minute.”
“Okay.” He did, watching while her eyelids drooped and her face went slack. The rise and fall of her shoulders slowed as her breathing did, too. He continued to watch her as she slept, making sure she looked comfortable, and then he went downstairs to put away the groceries he’d bought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Theresa awoke in darkness, noticing for the first time that her head, which had felt like it was going to explode for the past two days, actually only ached a little bit. Her body still creaked with pain, but it felt more like she’d been run over by a bicycle than a tractor trailer. She felt sticky and gross from sweat, her pajamas clinging to her. For the first time in three days, she thought she might actually be able to take a shower.
It was a mistake. She’d eaten next to nothing since coming down with this, and as soon as she leaned over to turn on the hot water, the world spun as dizziness overwhelmed her. She sank onto her knees next to the claw-foot tub, knowing there was no way she was going to be able to get herself in and out of it without falling.
Theresa had not cried—really cried—for a long time. There’d been a few bouts of tears when things ended with Wayne—mostly of the self-castigating sort—because she’d allowed herself to get close enough to him for anything he ever did to bother her even for a second. Now, though, she couldn’t stop herself from letting a frustrated sob slip out of her throat as scalding tears stung her eyes. She was on a bathroom floor clutching a bathtub while steam filled the air, her pajamas only half-off, and she wasn’t going to be able to get herself under the water, which was the only place she wanted to be in that moment.
When the bathroom door creaked open, she managed to raise her head from its place on the tub’s curved lip. So Ilya taking care of her had not been a fever dream, though it had seemed something like one.
“Theresa, shit, did you fall?” He knelt next to her, taking her hand.
She was aware that she was barely dressed but couldn’t bring herself to care. It wasn’t like he’d never seen her nearly naked. “No, I wanted to take a shower. I feel so gross, but I got dizzy.”
“You should’ve called for me,” he said. “C’mon, let me help you get back to bed.”
“No,” she muttered. More tears. She hated that she was crying but couldn’t stop herself. “I want a shower . . . please . . . I just feel so sweaty and awful, Ilya.”
She also hated the sound of pleading in her voice, hated being dependent on him, hated feeling this way. She did not hate that he was there; that was clear to her even through the again-rising ache in her head. She blinked, trying to force away the tears, but they wouldn’t go.
“Okay. Sure. Shhh. Hey, it’s fine.” Ilya stroked the hair off her face, where it had stuck to her with sweat and tears and God knew what else. “I’ll help you in the shower.”
He got her up and tested the water as she struggled to tug at her pajamas. “No peeking,” she managed to say, as ridiculous as it was.
“No,” Ilya promised. “Not a single one.”
He kept his back turned when she was naked, then his face as he gripped her arm to steady her as she put first one foot, then the other, in the tub. She sat at once, not daring to stand. With her knees pulled to her chest, head bowed to let the water pound away at the tension in the back of her neck and shoulders, Theresa let out a long, sobbing sigh of relief.
“I want to lie down,” she said after a minute, certain Ilya was still there, although she hadn’t raised her head to see him. “I want to sleep in here.”
“Okay.” She heard him tug the shower curtain all the way around the tub. “I’ll wait here. The water’s going to turn cold after a while. You’ll need help getting out.”
She slipped onto her side along the tub’s curved bottom. It wasn’t big enough to let her stretch out, but the warm water pattering all over her felt so good she didn’t mind being a little cramped for now. She couldn’t really sleep, but she could doze.
“You okay in there? Don’t drown,” Ilya said.
“’M okay . . .”
The curtain rattled a little. “I’m right here, if you need me.”
She was feeling far from well, but she was starting to feel better. At least the stickiness of her fever sweats was washing away. The sound of the water thrumming on the tub soothed her, along with the warmth and the steam that relieved some of the pressure in her head. By the time the water began to cool, she felt ready to get out.
Ilya had a towel ready for her, and her robe. Wrapped up but with her hair still sopping wet, Theresa was steady enough to make it back to her room, where she sat on the edge of the bed and didn’t feel like she was about to topple over.
“My hair,” she said. “It’s a mess. I need to comb it, and I don’t think I can do it.”
“Where’s your comb?”
“You can’t do it for me,” she protested, but Ilya had already found it on her dresser and was sitting on the bed next to her. “Ilya, no.”
He didn’t argue with her, but he didn’t stop, either. She thought mildly about fighting him off but didn’t have the strength . . . and didn’t really want to. He grasped her hair at the base of her neck and tugged the comb gently through from his fingers to the ends. She braced herself for pain, but his grip kept the comb from yanking.
“I haven’t had anyone comb my hair for me in so long. I can’t remember the last time. I must’ve been a kid.” Her body sagged at the comfort of being pampered in this way. “Being taken care of.”
“Had a . . . friend . . . who was a hairdresser. She told me the trick to combing out without hurting the person is to do it this way. I’ve never, um, you know, actually combed someone else’s hair.” He moved the comb higher to work on the tangles at the crown.
Theresa laughed, surprising herself that she was able to, at his use of the word “friend.”
“Uh-huh. A friend. You’ve had a lot of friends.”
“Nothing wrong with having a lot of friends.” Using his fingers, he tugged them through her hair.
She shivered at the touch. “Sure.”
“You okay? Fever coming back?” Ilya put a hand on her shoulder to turn her a bit toward him.
“No. I don’t think so. I always shiver when someone touches my hair.” She pulled her robe tighter around her throat, more aware that she was naked beneath it than she’d been in the bathroom.
“You should get some sleep.”
She looked at him. “You don’t have to take care of me. Thank you, but you don’t need to.”
“Someone needs to.”
“Nobody,” Theresa said more fiercely than she meant to, “needs to take care of me. I can take care of myself!”
The force of her words made her head hurt again. She shifted away from him, but his hand on her shoulder kept her still. His gaze bore into hers.
“You deserve to be taken care of, Theresa. I want to be here.”
“And you’re the one to do it?” Her voice roughened again, her throat aching not from her illness but from the effort of holding back the urge to cry again. “Am I another one of your . . . friends?”
Ilya shook his head. “Not like them. Shit, I don’t know.”
“Like Dina from next door?” Theresa whispered.
“Definitely not like her. Look, we don’t have to talk about this now. You’re sick. You should rest.” He pushed her hair over her shoulder, and she shivered again.
They stared at each other.
“Why did you kiss me in the hall that night?” she asked.
Ilya’s brow furrowed, then smoothed. “I wanted to. Why did you let me?”
“I wanted you to, I guess.” Her head was really aching again now, not quite at the splitting level it had been, but enough to make her ready to lie down with her eyes closed. No more talking. She didn’t have the energy.
“I’d kiss you right now if you weren’t sick,” he said.
Laughing hurt her head, but she couldn’t stop herself. She closed her eyes against the throb of pain, but her smile remained. “Weirdo.”
“Go to sleep. I’ll bring you some soup when you want it.”
Theresa opened her eyes. “What are we doing, Ilya? This is crazy.”
“It’s crazy,” he agreed, and pressed a chaste kiss to her hand, which she had not realized he was holding. “So . . . maybe we can be a little crazy?”
It was the fever. She wasn’t thinking straight. Maybe this was all a delusion, Theresa thought as she let him squeeze her fingers and press the back of her hand to his lips.
“You always got away with it. Whatever trouble you were getting into, you got away with it . . . are you going to get away with it this time?” She sounded a little drunk, her words slurring and voice rasping. She was so tired now, nothing much was making sense.
“Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Unable to protest anymore, she let him tuck her into the blankets and press a kiss to her forehead. She let him sit with her until she drifted into sleep, and, when she woke up, she let him feed her soup while they both laughed at old Three Stooges movies he played on her laptop. Later still, she let him get into bed beside her to spoon until she slept again, then woke feeling almost normal.
Ilya snored lightly beside her, his head on the mattress because she only had one pillow. His face had turned away from her. He wore a pair of briefs, no shirt, and had pulled the sheet only up to just past his belly button. One hand curled on the center of his chest while the other rested above his head.
She didn’t want to wake him. They would have to talk, again, about what was going on with them. Or what wasn’t going to happen. She didn’t want to talk about it, to make it real one way or another. She didn’t want to have to decide.
This time, she made it into the shower all by herself without feeling like she might faint. She showered quickly, keeping her hair out of the water so she wouldn’t have to deal with combing it again. She dressed quickly in fresh pajamas, not quite ready for “real” clothes. Ilya was still sleeping, his face now buried in her pillow, when she passed by the room’s open door.
She made tea and toast, nibbling slowly to give her stomach time to adjust after days of eating next to nothing. The food settled her as the tea warmed her. She didn’t feel like she had a fever, but she shook a couple of acetaminophen into her palm and swallowed them with swigs of tea, anyway, to fend off the
slightest hint of a lingering headache.
“Hey.” Ilya, hair sticking up all over and still bare-chested, came into the kitchen as easily as if he lived there.
He was used to doing that, Theresa thought suddenly. Of course he was. The thought of the reasons why should’ve bothered her more but somehow didn’t. She watched him help himself to a mug and hot water, a tea bag. He turned to see her looking.
“You feeling better?” he asked. “You look better.”
“If that’s a nice way of saying I looked like death before, thanks.” She sipped her tea.
Ilya smiled. “You could never look like death. But you do look much better now.”
“Such a charmer,” she said. “Thank you for being here. Thank you for taking care of me.”
He pulled a face, looking as though he was going to make a joke. It was what she expected of him, anyway. Instead, his smile softened. When he crossed the room to her, she should have turned her face away, but he was too fast or she was too slow, because his lips brushed hers as one hand tipped her chin gently upward to allow him full access to her mouth. The kiss lasted only a second or so, barely long enough for her to even close her eyes. His touch on her face lingered a little longer, until he moved his hand around the back to comb through her hair.
She shivered.
“I wanted to be there for you. Even if you looked totally disgusting.”
A rush of heat flooded her, but it had nothing to do with the return of a fever. She managed a whisper. “Thanks, Weirdo.”
There seemed to be so much more to say, but she didn’t have the strength for it right then. She needed to get back beneath a pile of blankets and watch some mindless television while she sipped at tea and dozed off this headache. She didn’t have the strength to think about the possibilities of what any of this might mean . . . but it was clear the possibilities were there.
“I’m really tired,” she said in a low voice. “My head’s hurting a little again. I think I need to lie down.”
“I could stay,” Ilya whispered. “Hang out for a bit. Make sure you’re okay.”
Refusal rose to her lips, but the faint taste of him left from his kiss would not let the “no” escape. “I could eat some soup.”