Page 58 of Sweet Nothings

This isn’t the same. This isn’t the same.

I can’t breathe. All sorts of disturbing images play in my mind—ones that are nauseating and heart-wrenching. Ones no normal, sane person would conjure up unless they had good reason. There’s no in between in my mind. I go from zero to a thousand, immediately darting to the worst possible scenario.

“She woke up with a head cold, Mr. Harding. Sore throat, stuffy nose, headache. She climbed into bed as soon as we got home and hasn’t emerged since.”

“Oh,” I sigh, my stomach relaxing. I place my hand against my chest. “Let me know when she wakes up. I don’t care what she said about me being in meetings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and Ray?”

“Yes?”

“Next time my wife leaves work because she’s sick, I want to fucking know about it.”

“Yes, s?—"

I cut Ray off before he can finish his sentence. My phone slips from my hand, dropping on my desk with a loud thud.

A twinge of guilt hits me. I’ve never talked to Ray this way. Although he’s worked for me the past ten years, I’ve always treated him with respect and valued his friendship. But my shaking hands and hammering heart couldn’t take the conversation. Anchoring myself, I sit at my desk and bury my face in my hands. Pressure builds behind my eyes.

Minutes pass before I’m able to collect my thoughts and clear my mind.

When I open my eyes again, I stare at my desk as one single tear drop slides down my cheek, dropping onto the glossy wood. It splashes and pools as my heart sinks like an anchor plummeting to the bottom of the sea.

I place my hand on my chest and count my heartbeats.

Laurel is okay. She’s at home, inourapartment, wrapped up in the safety and comfort ofoursheets onourbed.

I need to get a fucking grip.

EIGHTEEN

Crinkling plastic and a dull thud wake me from a dead sleep. I crack my eyes open, unsure of what torture the sickness will inflict on my body when I do so. Will it be my head? My nose? If I swallow, will a searing fiery pain make its way down?

The pressure in my nose has subsided only a little. I sniff. The nostril that was clogged this morning is now clear, the sickness moving on to the other one. I groan, cracking my eyes open to the bright midday sun.

A beautiful Boston day. Summer will do that to the city. During the winter months, clouds descend over the city and make a home until summer forces its way in, waking Boston from deep hibernation.

But even though it’s summer, my body wears this sickness like it’s the dead of winter. My skin flashes with heat, but a shiver ripples across my body.

Closing my eyes again, I roll over and slide my arm out across the mattress. Lennon’s side of the bed is still empty.

Sadness mixes and mingles with my sickness. The memories of my conversation with Roe and the absence of Lennon have my heart constricting once again.

It’s difficult to love someone but not have the ability to fix them. Love can make you powerful while also making you weak. A beast with two faces. The hero and the villain. A paradox not seeking to be solved.

I want to save Roe, but I can’t. I want to love Lennon, but it’s difficult when he keeps me at a distance.

I open my eyes again and press my hand to my forehead. Sticky with sweat, my skin is on fire. I pant and stare at the far wall on Lennon’s side of the room.

A large, brown, wooden dresser stretches from one wall to the other. Lennon’s dresser. I’ve seen him pull socks and underwear from the top drawers when he gets dressed for work, thinking I’m still asleep.

I gasp when I see the items covering the entire top of the dresser. Items that weren’t there before.

With my broken heart and weakened body, I force myself to crawl out of bed. Searing pain radiates in my bones as I tug on the throw blanket at the foot of the bed, wrapping it around my shoulders.

I walk the few steps over to the dresser and eye every item. Bottles of water enhanced with electrolytes. Every brand and type of flu medicine in both liquid and pill form. Headache and pain medicine. A heating pad. Ice packs. Chicken noodle soup. Saltine crackers. Ginger ale. I lose track of what’s in front of me. It’s as if an entire pharmacy has been delivered to not only my doorstep, but my bedroom.

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