Page 35 of Splintered Memories
I gingerly shook my head. I wouldn’t risk putting anything more into my stomach, so I pushed the water back into his hand.
He let out a dissatisfied sigh. “It’ll be right there if you need it.” He placed the glass back on the table. “There’s also some juice with electrolytes if you’d rather have that, and a sleeve of crackers. It’s allwhere you can reach.” His hand thumped against something near my bedside, too close to the floor for me to see. “I grabbed a five-gallon bucket from the garage. If you’ve gotta hurl, do it in there.”
I grimaced but appreciated the thoughtfulness. Being in bed was much better than the bathroom floor.
My eyes met his. I studied those hues of gray, some so light they were a sparkling silver in the light.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” He raised a brow.
I blinked, not sure I wanted to answer. “Why are you doing all of this?” My voice was a raspy whisper.
He frowned again, the fine lines around his eyes deepening. He reached for me, and I didn’t flinch away as he tucked a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. “You’re sick,” he said simply, as if that were explanation enough.
My eyebrows narrowed, the skin pulling against the small wound on my forehead. “So?” It didn’t make sense. What did he have to gain from this? My father wasn’t paying him enough to risk getting puked on. Or worse, contracting this virus himself. He should be staying far away from me.
His eyes widened as understanding flashed within them. My chest ached at the tenderness that accompanied it.
“Emersyn.” He said my name with such gentle caution, as if he were treading on thin glass. “Has no one ever taken care of you when you were sick?”
Something deep inside me shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the fever or the nausea. Memories stirred, old and splintered things I’d tried sohard to forget.
I didn’t remember when it had started, but I was very young the first time I recall being ill. My mother had gotten so upset, livid because of my constant whining. She told me that I was being manipulative, trying to take her attention away from all the things she needed to get done. I was being so selfish, she’d said, that I couldn’t really be that sick.
She had locked me alone in my room until I stopped my pathetic act. I remember feeling so confused because I wasn’t pretending. I had tried to convince myself that maybe I wasn’t sick. So, I’d laid in my bed, alone, trying to fight the symptoms, as if I could make myself better by sheer will alone. Eventually, I’d lost that battle. It hadn’t mattered how tight I’d clenched my jaw or how many times I swallowed the sickness down—I’d thrown up on my carpet anyway.
And when my mother had found the mess I’d made all over—
I wrenched myself out of the thoughts, the memories, shoving them back down into the dark depths of my soul, where they couldn’t be seen.
My breaths hitched as my stomach cramped, the sharp claws of nausea digging into my gut. Just like all those years ago, I fought against it.
“Hey.” The sound of his voice grounded me as he touched my hand. “Breathe.”
I hadn’t realized I was gasping.Damn it. I needed to get hold of myself, but it was hard when I was so exhausted and feverish.
Those strong fingers gripped my hand. August lifted my palm and pressed it against his chest. “Focus on filling your lungs,” he instructed, voice low and soft. His chest expanded with a deep breath. “Then let it out slowly.”
My hand dipped as his chest deflated at a steady, measured pace.
He continued that rhythm, breathing in and out, my hand pressed against his chest until I mimicked him. A tightness I hadn’t registered loosened in my ribs and lungs, my breaths becoming easier and even.
I stared at my hand. August hadn’t let go and it was sandwiched between his firm chest and his warm palm. His thumb swept over my knuckles in slow circles.
Shadows of exhaustion crept up on me, and I welcomed them as my eyelids grew so heavy I couldn’t keep them open a moment longer. I thought, for a brief moment, that maybe having August Ramsey as my bodyguard wasn’t the worst thing after all.
13
Emersyn
Thenexttwenty-fourhourswent by in a blur of half dreams, dizzying fever, and an aching stomach. I slept for most of it, only waking to vomit into that bucket or when August woke me to force water down my throat.
It was the sickest I had ever been. But for once, I wasn’t alone. Whenever I startled awake, my head swimming from fever and bone-deep exhaustion, he was there. He held my hair back when I retched. He put cool cloths on my forehead and made sure I took medicine. He rubbed my back, gently massaging the sore muscles.
And I let him. I didn’t have the energy to fight it. I didn’t want to.
When my eyes opened after what seemed like a very long time, I glanced blearily around the room. Light filtered in my bedroom windows and a warm hand was wrapped around mine. I shifted in my bed, turning my head. My heart clenched. August knelt at my bedside, one hand over mine. His head rested against the mattress, eyes closed and hair mussed from sleep.
I stared at him, my senses finally coming back to me. My face heated, but it had nothing to do with a fever that finally was gone. I wondered how long he had been in this room. Had he left at all? I glanced around for my phone but couldn’t find it.
