Page 38 of Hometown Touchdown
He exhales a short breath through his nose. “You weren’t at the game.”
“I was dying of the plague. Sue me.”
“I ran into your mom. She said you weren’t feeling so hot.”
“So naturally, your next step was to show up at my door like some overachieving Florence Nightingale?”
His jaw tightens. “I just—” He pauses, eyes narrowing a little like he’s mad at himself. “I don’t know, Brynn. Your mom said you weren’t feeling good, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. So here I am.”
The strain in his voice makes me feel a little sorry for him. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe and cross my arms. “Knox, I’m fine. It’s just a fever. I’m not in mortal danger.”
“You look like hell.”
“Thanks.”
He shifts. “That wasn’t—damn it. I just meant you look pale. And clammy. And like you haven’t eaten anything but saltines since Clinton was in office.”
I blink at him. “You’re terrible at comfort.”
“I don’t do this,” he snaps, voice low. “I don’t check on people. I don’t show up. But for some reason, with you—I needed to.”
The silence between us stretches, thick and full of too much.
My voice softens. “You could’ve just sent me a text.”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “I should’ve.”
I back up, open the door wider. “Well. Since you’re already here…”
He steps in, hesitating in the threshold like it might burn him.
He doesn’t stay long at first. Takes one look at my sorry excuse for a medicine stash—expired ibuprofen and two cough drops—and mutters something about being right back, leaving just as quickly as he came.
Once I’m alone, I’m back on the couch, trying not to spiral about what it means that he came at all. What it means that he showed up at my door. Why does it matter to him?
But more importantly, why does it matter to me that it matters to him?
I lose track of time until the front door creaks open again. “I’m back.”
“I didn’t die,” I call weakly. “But it was touch and go.”
Knox walks into the room like he’s preparing for battle—arms full of bags, pharmacy sacks, and what looks suspiciously like a stuffed animal.
I blink. “Did you rob Foster’s Pharmacy?”
He starts unloading the bags. There’s pain meds, cough syrup, thermometer, electrolyte drinks, a heating pad, cooling pads, throat drops, vitamins, and yep, a stuffed bunny in a tiny T-shirt that saysGet Well Soonin Comic Sans.
He crouches beside me, sorting through the bags like he’s building an arsenal. “I didn’t know what you needed, so I got everything.”
“You bought me a stuffed rabbit.”
“I panicked.”
I stare at it. It’s pink, slightly lopsided, and looks like it’s seen some things.
“It’s hideous,” I whisper.
“I know.”
