Page 156 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“You’re barely making sense.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Then I vomit all over the tarmac and go down hard.
When I wake up, I’m back in our apartment, in Hunter’s bedroom. I would recognize the scent anywhere. Everything’s blurry, like I’m looking through frosted glass. The sheets are cool against my burning skin. The lights are dim. Hunter is beside me, holding a cold compress to my forehead.
“Hey,” he whispers when he sees my eyes open. “How are you feeling?”
“Like death.”
“The team doctor came by. She says it’s just a case of the flu. Nothing serious, but you’re burning up.”
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. My head feels like it’s full of bees, and the room spins violently. Hunter’s there immediately, easing me back down.
“Don’t get up, Monroe. Just rest.”
I drift in and out of sleep for what feels like days. Fever dreams where Patrick and Hunter are fighting and I can’t stop them. Nightmares where I’m back in Patrick’s apartment and he’s telling me again that no man will ever choose me. I shake so hard my teeth chatter despite the blankets Hunter keeps piling on me.
But every time I wake up, he’s still there. Bringing me water when I can keep it down. Changing my sheets when I soak them with sweat. Wiping my face with a cool cloth when the fever spikes. Never once looking disgusted or tired even though I’m sure I look disgusting.
He’s just… here.
Two days pass in a blur of misery.
Finally, I stir for real. Everything still hurts, but the fever has broken. I can think clearly for the first time since Houston. I look around and spot Hunter scribbling in his notebook. He looks up when I move.
“What time is it?”
“You’re awake,” he says, relief clear in his voice. “How do you feel?”
“Like I got hit by a truck, but better.”
He feeds me a few sips of Gatorade, then some broth, then actual toast when it becomes clear I can keep food down. He changes the sheets one last time and climbs into bed beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He turns on old sitcom reruns and gently strokes my hair while I lie there, wrecked but finally on the mend.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I whisper, my voice still weak.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Hunter.”
“What?” He kisses my forehead, soft and careful. “All I’ve ever wanted is to be useful to somebody.”
The words hit me like a physical blow. This man, who seems so confident, so sure of himself, is just as terrified of not being enough as I am of being too much.
I lie there, stunned by the realization.
This started as a favor. A stunt. Now I’m losing sleep over a man who isn’t really mine.
And that’s the problem.
“What are you thinking about?” Hunter asks quietly.
“You,” I admit before I can stop myself.
“Yeah?”
