Page 60 of I Love a Good Challenge

Sparrow hearts the message, and I toss the phone on the bathroom counter. After taking one of the fastest showers of my life, I berate myself for almost putting my pants on backward. I avoid eye contact with myself—a man who can pass the bar but can’t get his arm through his shirt without almost punching a hole through the fabric.

“Calm down, calm down,” I mutter. Lily isn’t far away. Unsure of what I’ll be walking into, I slide into my shoes, grab my keys, and barely manage to throw a protein bar into my jacket pocket before I’m out the door.

Since Lily’s studio is only a few streets away from my apartment, I’m already calculating that it should take me less than two minutes to drive there, including the starting of my car. Turns out, I’m there in less than one.

In my haste, I almost leave the car in neutral when I exit. Quickly throwing it into park, I nearly trip on the way to her building’s front door. Thankfully, because I was here when we escaped the storm, I know where she lives in the non-creepiest way possible. As I enter the building, a door flies open on the first floor. An older man with intense round glasses and a long cardigan wrapped around his shoulders steps out, pieces of his greying hair sticking out in every direction.

“Can I help you?” His question comes across as more inquisitive than threatening.

“I’m looking for Lily,” I reply. “And you are?”

He bristles a bit, clearly offended that I don’t know him. Should I?

“I’m her landlord, Mr. Crumbs. That lady is always up to shenanigans.” He shakes his finger.

His grim tone brings out an involuntary laugh from my chest. To cover my faux pas, I nod as if this accusation is a truly serious issue instead of acknowledging how distracted I am by his last name. Impatiently, I look away and spot a chocolate wrapper on the edge of a stair tread leading up to Lily’s door. I don’t know whether to keep it or commit myself for study.

“If you find that amusing, then you two deserve each other,” Mr. Crumb says. He turns around and slams his door.

Relieved to be back on mission, I rush up the stairs two at a time and knock on her door with the backs of my knuckles.

“Lily, honey.” I surprise myself with the term of endearment that just slips out. If I wasn’t so worried about her, I’d be thinking about the way I’m hoping and wondering if she’ll look at me again today like she used to.

From inside her apartment, I hear what sounds like a crash. I’m about to break down the door when it flies open, revealing Lily slightly hunched with her hair wrapped in a bun on the very top of her head. It appears alarmingly like a bird’s nest, and I take in the sight before registering the rest of her ensemble: a black sweatshirt that reads Tell it to the judge, joggers (black, of course), and a look in her eye that immediately tells me what’s wrong. She’s sick.

“Stuffed up. Shivering. All of this!” she mutters, using a hand to signal around her face. She reaches into her pocket and grabs a tissue.

Right at this moment, it occurs to me that I’ve never seen Lily sick. She’s always been so formidable, unable to not be ready for battle. I hear her let out a little whimper—she’s clearly not fully realizing who I am at this moment. Or she doesn’t care because her defenses are down. Or perhaps she recognizes that I’m the closest thing to hope.

She turns from me without a word, her feet shuffling in slippers that are light pink and covered in chocolates. Of course they are. While I suspect that Lily thinks she’s moving quickly away from me, it’s really a pathetic shuffle. She stops halfway to her couch and looks longingly at the kitchen. If she were fully aware of my presence in her current state, I’d be embarrassed at how quickly I’m behind her, my hands hovering just beside her ribs in case she starts to sway.

“What do you need?” They’re the only words that escape my mouth, though I could say more. While I wish her answer would be me, I mean more along the lines of medicine and picking up soup from the diner.

She makes a squeaking sound. Her little noises are quickly shattering my resolve not to pick her up and bring her to the couch myself. Her energy seems spent, the floor appears to be lava, and she can’t seem to get away from the safety of where she stands.

As gently as I can, I put an arm around her shoulder and guide her toward the couch. I nearly forget to breathe when she places her head on my shoulder. But that isn’t where she lands. Immediately, she shifts her face so it’s turned toward my neck. She nuzzles against my skin. I tell myself she doesn’t mean to be so vulnerable. The heat radiating from her tells me there’s a fever involved, but I use the gesture as permission to scoop her up into my arms.

“Do you want the couch or your bed?” I whisper, not sure if her head is pounding.

She points to the couch, and I set her down as gently as possible. Lifting her head with the palm of my hand, I support her neck and shift a cushion underneath. Not good enough.

“Hold on,” I mutter. As I move away, I keep my eyes on her until the last possible second, when my vision is cut off by the wall—you know, just architectural conventions separating me from her—and rush to her bedroom. It takes me a solid ten seconds to muster the courage to step over the threshold, but my woman is sick. She needs more than a couch cushion. Spotting the fluffy pillows on her bed paired with an eccentric quilt that I decidedly ignore, along with the lingering smell of what must be her body wash or perfume, I’m back by her side a few moments later.

“What are you doing?” Lily mumbles, her nose scrunched in pain.

“Taking care of you.” Gently, I lift her head again to replace the pillow.

“This was my dream,” she whispers.

I’m going to need more time to process those words. Hastily, I text Lucy and ask her to have an order of vegetable noodle soup ready. I send an SOS to Liam—the most solid guy I know, practically a fixture in Birch Borough, and someone I now consider a good friend—a request to grab some tissues, lozenges, and medicine from the general store. I also ask him to order a vat of ice cream from Bette’s for me to pick up. I text Sparrow to tell her that I found Lily, she’s sick, and I’m not leaving her. My phone pings with a reply immediately.

Sparrow: Thank you for taking care of her. She couldn’t have anyone better.

My mind races. If I had to guess, this is the equivalent of having Sparrow’s blessing. The phone pings again, and I scan the message before pausing to read it again.

Rafe: Just remember: Lily once told me I could change the ending. Rooting for you both.

I put the phone down, my hands shaking.

---