Page 2 of Saddle and Scent
"Do you need something?" I manage, voice gravelly and pathetic. If I didn’t hate myself already, the way my legs are shaking under the blanket would do it.
His head tips, like he’s considering the right answer.Not if, but how.
"Was going to check if you needed anything." His voice is low, steady as a metronome, and if he notices I’m barely hanging onto consciousness, he doesn’t say.
"I'm fine."A blunt lie."It's just the flu."A Second lie, though probably more believable, if you ignore the fact that I’m essentially dry humping my own mattress for relief.
He doesn’t move.
His eyes do the work:a slow scan from the top of my head to the way my fists clutch the sheets to the dark, wet patch where my hips meet the bed.
"I’ve had the flu, Juniper. That’s not a flu."
Well…fuck.
This isn’t going as I planned.
I dig my teeth into my lip, try to glare him into dust. He stays resolutely un-vaporized.
Instead, he leans a shoulder against the doorframe and waits, like this is a normal conversation and not the single worst moment of my post-adolescent life.
Ugh!
Whether it’s the fever, or the exhaustion, my body makes a snap decision on my behalf:just get it over with.
I push up onto my elbows, which is a terrible idea. The air hits my sweat-slick skin and I shudder so hard the mattress squeaks. He notices. I know he does, because his jaw twitches and he takes a shallow breath, and the air between us hums with the kind of charge you only get right before a thunderstorm or a really bad decision.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, but doesn’t leave. Instead, he steps inside, closes the door behind him, and sets the glass he’s already brought down on the table.
The water glows blue in the light.
“How long has it been?”
Casual talk that’s not doing much to distract but certainly forcing me to acknowledge reality.
I try to remember.
“Started last night.” I wipe my face on the least wet corner of the sheet. “Just got worse. It’s—” I stop. There is no polite word for what’s happening to me. “Intense.”
He nods.
“Happens sometimes. Body resets after a change.” He’s talking about my move, the stress, the shock of rural life. But the way he says it—low, calm, too knowing—makes me want to throw the water at his head.
Or just pour it over myself and hope for a numbing effect.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
If I say it enough, maybe he’ll believe it.
“Doesn’t mean you have to handle it alone, Juniper.” He sits, careful to keep a few feet of bed between us.
Like he’s not even tempted.
The lie would be soothing if it weren’t so obviously that.
He looks at me for a long time. Like he’s mapping out the exact coordinates of my suffering, measuring the tremor in my hands, the blotchy red striping my cheeks, the arch of my back as I try to keep from grinding against the mattress in front of him.
He waits until my dignity is beyond saving, then says.
