Almost Romance

by Kylie Gilmore

  He raised a brow. “For what?”

  “For coming to visit me.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear that had fallen out of her bun. “And for sticking around long enough to make the boyfriend part happen.”

  “My pleasure,” he crooned in her ear. He rubbed his stubbled jaw along the sensitive skin of her neck before his lips made a hot trail of their own.

  She let out a happy sigh.

  “We’d better eat before it gets cold,” he said. “You’re my dessert.”

  Their eyes met, and she found herself smiling like a fool. She shook her head and took a helping of potatoes and green beans and settled a plate on her lap too.

  Ian cut into his turkey. “Welp, here goes nothing.” He took a bite and chewed for a long time. “It’s terrible. Mushy, chewy, and flavorless.” He pointed his fork at her. “You’re missing out.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t even like turkey.”

  “Then why’d you make it?”

  “I wanted to make you a traditional Christmas dinner. So you didn’t feel like you were missing out from Christmas back home.”

  He cocked his head. “That’s sweet, Kate. Thank you.”

  She flushed and dug into the potatoes, which were always her favorite. They were kinda hard, but she didn’t think she could cook them anymore once they were mashed. The green beans were okay. Once they’d finished eating, Ian zonked out on the sofa.

  She quietly cleared the food away, tucked the leftovers in the refrigerator, and called home. Barry answered. “Merry Christmas, Kate. We sure missed you and Ian, but I hope you’re having a great time out there in Chicagoland.”

  “We are. We just finished dinner and now he’s sleeping.”

  “Did you feed him turkey?”

  “Yes.”

  “He always conks out after turkey.” Then he said away from the phone, “It’s Kate.” There was a rustle and then she heard her sister.

  “Hey!” Amber said. “Merry Christmas!” And then a little girl voice said, “Me-wy Tismas, Tate! I got doobie.”

  “Merry Christmas, Violet!” Kate exclaimed.

  Amber got back on the phone. “She means her own paint set. I don’t know why she calls it doobie. Why do you call it doobie, Vi?”

  “Doobie doobie,” Violet said in the background.

  Amber laughed. “She’s dancing. Maybe she means the music I play when I paint. How’s it going with you and Ian?”

  “Good. He’s sleeping.”

  “So-o-oo?”

  She smiled and gazed at Ian’s sleeping form. “It’s official. He’s my boyfriend. We have a schedule for the long-distance arrangement, which is very satisfying.”

  “That’s great! I know it’s hard, but once you’re finished out there…what is it? Only a year and a half, right? Then you won’t have to be long distance. I hope you’ll come back to the East Coast.”

  A trickling of unease went through her at the thought of the future. She didn’t know where she’d be. There were a number of research facilities she was interested in both here and abroad. Would Ian be willing to move where her career took her? Or would he expect her to settle in Boston where he worked?

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Well, don’t worry about that now,” Amber said in a reassuring tone. “Just play it by ear. I’m sure you’ll work something out. Oh, your mom wants the phone.”

  Her parents had spent several holidays with Barry and Amber in order to visit their only grandchild. “Kate, we’ve missed you,” her mom said.

  “I missed you guys too,” Kate replied.

  “Is Chicago satisfactory?” her mom asked.

  “Yes. I made Christmas dinner, but it didn’t turn out very well.”

  “I hope you washed your hands after handling the turkey.”

  “I did. I know about salmonella.”

  There was a silence, and then she heard her dad’s voice. “Merry Christmas, Kate. Too bad you got stuck out there.”

  “Yes. Merry Christmas to you too.”

  “How’s Ian?”

  “He’s good.”

  “I’ll see you when you come home again. When is that?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

  “Okay. Your mother and I won’t be spending the night here. Violet is too rambunctious in the morning, so I’ll say goodbye now. We have to get back on the road.” Her parents had a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Clover Park, Connecticut, back to Princeton, New Jersey. They both worked at Princeton University.

  “Okay,” Kate said. “Bye.”

  He hung up.

  She snuggled up next to Ian on the sofa, and he stirred enough to pull her close, spooning her from behind. There was just no better place to feel loved than in his arms.

  ~ ~ ~

  The morning after Christmas, Ian woke feeling nauseous. He ran to the bathroom and threw up. At first he thought nothing of it. Last night after his little nap, he and Kate had made eggnog. She had one drink and was immediately loopy. He tried the eggnog, thought it was gross, and switched to bourbon. More than he was used to. So he thought it was just that. But the queasy feeling didn’t go away, and then he became one with the toilet. All day, coming out of both ends. It was awful.

  He was so sick, and Kate kept her distance. He thought with some rancor between bouts of toilet bonding that she was the world’s worst nurse. He’d probably die in this bathroom and she wouldn’t know because she was on her laptop in the living room, catching up with whatever stupid physics equation had captured her interest.

  He collapsed into bed as the sun was setting, dragging the bathroom trash can with him in case he threw up before he could make it back to the bathroom. “Water,” he croaked.

  No response.

  “Kate!”

  She appeared in the doorway. “What?”

  “Can you get me some water?”

  She turned and left. She returned, handed him the glass of water, and left. He took a sip. Then another. A few minutes later, he threw it all up. Fuck. He really was going to die here with Kate in the next room, completely oblivious to his suffering. She returned an hour later and offered him a slice of frozen pizza she’d heated up. The smell nauseated him, and he declined.

  Hours later, he felt too weak to even yell for her. He snagged his cell off the nightstand and called her. “Please get in here,” he said.

  She appeared in the doorway. “What?”

  “I can’t keep anything down,” he croaked. “Not even the water. I might need to go to the hospital.”

  “It’s probably just the flu. Let’s give it a couple of days. I’ll sleep in the living room.”

  He collapsed into a deep sleep. He woke sick again in the middle of the night. It must’ve been that turkey, he thought dimly. Food poisoning. He’d eaten it. Kate hadn’t. By the next morning he was still sick and so weak. His stomach muscles were killing him, cramping up painfully. He had nothing left in him, yet he couldn’t stop running to the toilet.

  Kate set a glass of water on the nightstand and eyed him where he lay miserably in bed. “I’m sure you’ll be better by tomorrow.”

  She left. He sipped the water, and a few moments later, it all came up again.

  He called Kate on his cell. “I need a doctor. I’m not getting better.”

  She appeared in the doorway. “Are you sure?”

  She hadn’t touched him since he got sick. He was pretty sure he was going to die on her watch. “I can’t keep anything down, not even water.”

  She frowned. “The only doctor I know is Christopher, and he’s in Wisconsin to spend Christmas with his family.”

  “Not him. There’s got to be a doctor in Chicago that will give me something to make this stop.”

  “Did you have your flu shot? You should get one every year.”

  “No, I didn’t get a flu shot,” he said between his teeth.

  She gave him a worried look. “I’m not sure if one will help at th
is point.”

  Nausea reared up, his stomach cramped, and he ran to the bathroom again. This was torture. Long horrific hours later, after another bout with the toilet, he washed his hands and took a staggering step toward the bedroom.

  It was night, and he only hoped he could sleep straight through until morning. He was so exhausted. He took another staggering step, the room spun, and then he was falling, and the world went black.

  Chapter Eight

  Kate heard a loud thump from the bedroom shortly after a dinner of leftover pizza and found Ian collapsed on the floor. She pushed as hard as she could to roll him over. “Ian, wake up!” she shouted as panic raced through her. “Wake up!”

  He wasn’t responding. She slapped his cheek a few times. He was cold and clammy. With shaking hands, she grabbed her cell and called 911. She knew she couldn’t lift him to get him into the car. The paramedics arrived: two men—one large, one small—and a woman. The large man, middle-aged with thinning brown hair and a no-nonsense expression, seemed to be in charge. She told them what happened and that she thought it was the flu. They checked Ian’s vitals, his heart rate was high, and then they lifted him onto a gurney and strapped him on.

  “And he’s been sick like this for two days?” the paramedic in charge asked her.

  “Yes,” she choked out. Ian looked so weak and frail on the gurney. All six feet of him suddenly seemed fragile.

  “He’s severely dehydrated. You should’ve called sooner. This can be dangerous.”

  She watched as they put Ian into the ambulance, and she scrambled up behind him.

  Ian opened his eyes. “What’s happening?”

  “You’re going to the hospital,” she told him.

  His eyes drifted shut again. The ambulance raced toward the hospital, and she could do nothing but stare at Ian, lying there so cold and still, like death. The paramedic was asking him a question about his health history, and he wasn’t responding.

  She threw herself on top of him. “Don’t die! I love you, I love you, I love you.”

  A sob escaped. And then another, and then she couldn’t stop sobbing uncontrollably, soaking the thin blanket on top of him.

  Ian’s hand settled on the back of her head. “Hey,” he croaked.

  And then strong arms were pulling her away. She fought the paramedic pulling at her, but he was too strong. They asked Ian questions and ran an IV. As soon as the coast was clear, she went back to him, but he drifted into unconsciousness again. She couldn’t stop crying, a low, keening sound interrupted by gasps of air.

  “Calm down,” the paramedic who wasn’t in charge kept saying to her. “He’s going to be fine.”

  But she didn’t believe him. Not until Ian stayed conscious. Not until he was back, talking to her again. He drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally mumbling something she couldn’t make out. Finally, they arrived at the hospital.

  “Are you his wife?” the paramedic in charge asked.

  She sniffled. “No, I’m his girlfriend.”

  “You have to wait in the waiting room. Someone will come get you.”

  The doors of the ambulance opened, and she watched them take Ian away. She followed behind, stumbling along until she got to the waiting room, where he disappeared through the doors. She clapped a hand over her mouth, fighting another uncontrollable sob, and then she slid down the wall to the floor and broke down in tears. A nurse came and coaxed her to a chair. How had he gotten so sick so quickly? She’d looked up the flu online and it said it would pass on its own. She stood and paced for several minutes, watching the door for word on him. Then she couldn’t take it anymore and took off after him.

  “Hey!” a nurse said as she flew by.

  “I’m his wife!”

  After peeking through several curtains, she found him in one of the emergency room beds, where he was unconscious and alone. She looked at his kind face now drawn and pale, the face that she loved, and broke down all over again. She climbed into the hospital bed and hugged him tightly, sobbing all over his chest. “Ian, please wake up. I love you so much. So, so much. Please don’t die. I love you, I love you, I love—”

  “Kate.” His voice rumbled in his chest.

  Her head popped up. “Ian! You’re alive.”

  “Yeah. What happened?”

  “You collapsed. We’re at the hospital, waiting for the doctor to come back, I think. I love you so much.”

  He licked his lips and tried to smile. “I heard that. I love you too. I’m so thirsty. My lips are dry.”

  She ripped the curtain back. “He needs water!”

  A nurse with short-cropped brown hair nodded and headed over with a pitcher of water. “Just small sips.”

  “I’m so sorry you got so sick,” she said.

  Ian took a small sip of water and the nurse left. “I think it was the turkey.”

  “Not the flu?”

  “No, because you’re not sick from it. And you didn’t have any turkey.”

  She flung her arms around him. “Omigod, this is all my fault. Me and my stupid Christmas dinner. I’m so sorry.”

  Ian pushed her away. “I still feel nauseous.”

  Kate leaped into action, standing in the middle of the emergency room. “We need a doctor! He’s had food poisoning for two days! Someone take care of him!”

  “A doctor will be with you shortly,” the nurse that had helped them before said. The woman crossed to Ian’s bed and looked at his chart. “He’s already been seen. They gave him something to stop the vomiting and a doctor will follow up as soon as one’s available.”

  The woman gave Kate a pointed look. “Please calm down. The ER is very busy today.”

  Kate scanned the room for a doctor. The nurse headed to the next patient.

  “Ah, Kate,” Ian said.

  She rushed back to his side. “What?”

  “Could you stop yelling and stay with me?”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “I was so mad at you before for ignoring me when I was sick.”

  Her brows shot up. “But I gave you food and water. That’s what my parents always did when I was sick.”

  “They left you alone with a cup of water?”

  “Yes. You’re supposed to stay away from the sick person, so you don’t get it and spread it to others.”

  “Geez. You’re lucky you never got that sick.”

  She thought about that. “I never did catch much. I didn’t spend a lot of time with the other kids at school. I mostly studied.” She bit her lip and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. “I’m sorry. I messed up. I didn’t know what to do. I’m so sorry.”

  He took a deep breath. “If I survive this, I’m writing down instructions for you. How to take care of someone who’s sick.”

  She sat by his side, grateful for his understanding. “Thank you, Ian.”

  “You’re welcome,” he muttered.

  “I love you so much.”

  “Keep saying that. It makes me feel a little better. My stomach muscles hurt so bad.” He put a hand to his stomach.

  “I love you,” she said. Then she left his side and stood in the middle of the emergency room and announced in a clear voice, “I need a doctor STAT. My husband is in terrible agony and it must stop.” Not seeing a doctor racing to the rescue, she hollered at the top of her lungs, “Where’s a doctor when you need one?”

  A doctor finally appeared with a clipboard. “Lower your voice,” the woman snapped. “We’re extremely busy with a lot of patients and short on staff.”

  Kate pointed to Ian, who gave the doctor a weak wave.

  Several hours later, Ian was released. The IV had hydrated him enough they felt they could return him to his wife’s care. “Why’d you say you were my wife?” he asked once they’d settled into the backseat of a cab, heading back to her apartment.

  “Because they wouldn’t let me see you unless we were married.”

  He held her hand. “You think one day we will be?”


  “I don’t know.” She had no idea what the future would hold, but right now she had to get some important information out of him. She dug a pencil and notepad out of her purse. She always kept them handy in case a breakthrough occurred to her away from the office. “Now tell me exactly what’s expected of someone taking care of a recovering patient. Besides the doctor’s instructions, rest and small sips of water and Gatorade.” She repeated the doctor’s instructions to make sure Ian knew he was in good hands now. “What else?”

  “Number one. Rub my feet.”

  Kate wrote that down. “Because feet are connected to the circulatory system. Got it.”

  “Number two. Feed me grapes.”

  She wrote that down. “Are you sure? Maybe something blander like rice.”

  “Okay, feed me rice. Number three. Remain naked at all times.”

  She stopped and looked at him for the first time. He was grinning. “Ian! I need the real directions. You’re not ending up in the hospital again!”

  “That will help.” He pointed to her notepad. “Write it down.”

  “It will not.”

  “Tell me again.” He gazed warmly at her, and she knew what he wanted.

  “I love you.”

  “Write that down for number four. And I love you too.”

  She wrote it down. “That’s number three. The original three was false information.”

  “Number five,” he said and waited until she looked up at him. Then he made an obscene gesture involving her mouth on him.

  She put her pencil down. “Now I know you’re feeling better.”

  “No thanks to you.”

  “I’m sorry! That’s why I’m writing the instructions.”

  “Number five for real. Touch the patient. Hold their hand, hug them, stroke their hair. Anything.”

  She stilled. “What do you mean anything? Be specific.”

  “Okay, hold my hand and ask if I want food or water. Do not offer pizza to someone barfing up a lung. Try toast.”