Page 89 of Romancing the Grump
“He’s feverish?”
“Yeah. Hot to the touch, and he’s shivering a little, like he’s cold.”
“Do you knowhowfeverish?” Lucy asks. “Does he have a thermometer?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t looked for one.” I pace back and forth beside Nathan’s bed, my eyes darting to the bathroom every five seconds. I can still see him through the open door.
“See if he has one,” Lucy says. “If he doesn’t, there’s one in the first aid kit in your car.”
I pause my pacing. “I have a first aid kit in my car?”
“You absolutely have a first aid kit in your car. It’s in your trunk. I gave it to you last Christmas. Actually, you should just go get it because it also has Liquid IV in it, and Nathan could probably use that.”
I sneak back into the bathroom and grab my keys, then race toward my car. “Got it. On my way.”
“Unless his fever is really high, like 105 high, he’s probably just dehydrated,” Lucy says as I go. “I’d just clean him up, give him a Liquid IV, then see if you can get some Tylenol in him to break the fever. If the fever doesn’t break, or he can’t keep liquids down, you might need to take him to the ER.”
“But not yet?” I ask as I open my trunk in search of Lucy’s first aid kid. I immediately recognize the black zipper case she gave me for Christmas—the one I put in my car and promptly forgot existed. I’ve never been so grateful that my sister is both a planneranda genius.
“See what his temperature is first,” she says. “And don’t panic. People get sick all the time, though the flu is particularly bad this year. But you’re there now. You’ll help him. And if he needsmorehelp, the paramedics can be there in a matter of minutes. He’s going to be fine.”
“Right. Not panicking,” I say as I let myself back into Nathan’s house. “But Lucy, how am I supposed to clean him up? I can’t just put him in the shower. There’s no way he can stand up.”
“Can you call one of his teammates? They’re all as big as he is, right?”
“His teammates are all on their way to Pennsylvania.”
“Then just help him,” she says simply. “Find somethingfor him to sit on in the shower and help him.”
“And just ignore his very muscular, very naked body?”
“It’s just a body,” she says. “Everyone has one. This is not a sexual situation, it’s a practical one. You can be discreet, but you can’t leave him with vomit in his hair. At the very least, give him a sponge bath. If you’re lucky, his shower has a hand sprayer. That would make things a lot easier.” Lucy sounds like she’s moving, the familiar background sounds of the hospital floating through the phone. I should let her go. If she isn’t on a break, we’ve already been on the phone too long.
“I gotta run,” Lucy says. “But you can do this. I’ll check in when I’m on my break.”
The fact that she’s being so chill about this goes a long way to helpingmefeel chill. “Okay. Thanks, Lu. You’re the best.”
Back by Nathan’s side, I unzip the first aid kid with renewed determination. It’s been less than five minutes since I first arrived, but it still feels like he’s been lying on the floor forever, and I’m anxious to get him up, to help him be more comfortable.
I press my palm to his cheek. “Hey,” I say. “I’m going to take your temperature, okay?”
He opens his eyes long enough to frown at me and tilt his head away. “Summer, please just…go. I'll be fine.”
“You’ll be fine faster if you let me help.”
“I don’t need your help.” He winces and groans, like the effort of stringing so many words together is too much.
“You clearly need something, and everyone else who cares about you is halfway to Pennsylvania. I’m all you’ve got, so stop being an idiot and let me take your temperature.”
He scowls, but finally opens his mouth and lets me slide the thermometer under his tongue.
“Am I dying?” he says after it beeps and I remove it. “I feel like I’m dying.”
“103.6, which means you are not dying.” A wave of relief washes over me. It also means he’snotgoing to the hospital. At least not yet. “But I’m guessing youaredehydrated, and I would really love for your fever to break.” I lift his arm, tucking both of my hands under his elbow and tugging gently. “Come on. Can you sit up for me? You can’t stay on your bathroom floor forever.”
Slowly, he pushes himself upright and leans against the glass door of his shower. “Ohhh, my head is spinning,” he says, then he winces. “And I smell really bad.”
“You do,” I say gently. “But we’re going to fix that.”
