Page 50 of Ripped

I hurt everywhere. From the hair follicles in my scalp to the tips of my toes, there isn’t a single inch of flesh in my body that doesn’t ache and protest when I move. Not that I can move. I’m trapped under what feels like two tons of blankets.

The room is mostly dark when I try to open my eyes. Connor is curled up next to me, on top of the blankets, one arm flung over me and the other hand tucked under the pillow by his cheek.

He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping, with the bottom lip tucked under his top one like he’s sucking on it. I’ve watched him sleep before, usually in the middle of the night before I untangle myself from his bed and come back upstairs to mine. Except this time—I glance around quickly without daring to move my head—we’re in my bedroom, not his.

My eyes slide shut. I had lunch with Phyllis and Leonard, then we visited Roger at the cemetery. I sat in the rain and got soaked to the bone. By the time I got home, I felt like shite and had laid down to take a nap. Connor must have found me like this. How long ago was that? What time is it?

I try to get my arm out of the blanket cocoon I’m trapped in and the movement wakes Connor up. He blinks, rubs his eyes, and makes an adorable sleepy sound.

“Hey, you’re awake.”

“I kind of wish I wasn’t.” My mouth is gross and my bladder is screaming at me, but the rest of me wants to sink back into unconscious oblivion.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I got run over by a train.”

Connor chuckles and swings himself off the bed. Just watching him move so easily, so smoothly, makes my body hurt.

“You kinda look like it too.”

“Gee, thanks.”

He leans over the bed, holding an ancient digital thermometer. “Put this under your tongue. I need to take your temperature.”

I don’t need a thermometer to know I have a fever and it’s running high. Still, I open my mouth and let him stick the pointy end in. “Where’d you find this thing?” I mumble around it.

“In the first aid kit in your bathroom.”

“Hmm.” I don’t even remember having a thermometer. I can’t remember the last time I was sick enough to need one.

It beeps and Connor pulls it out of my mouth. “One-hundred-and-two. Not great but I don’t need to take you to the hospital yet.”

I groan and close my eyes. “No, no hospital. I just need rest. I’ll be fine.”

There’s a muted cracking sound and when I open my eyes, Connor’s holding a bottle of Gatorade in front of me. “You’ve been sweating buckets. You need to hydrate.” There’s a hint of glee when he says that last word.

He’s right, except drinking requires moving and moving hurts.

“Come on. Let me help you.” Connor sets the bottle down and pushes some of the blankets off me.

I gasp at the blast of cold air and my entire body throbs like I’m one giant heartbeat. Connor settles me against the headboard, propped up with pillows, and hands me the Gatorade.

I take it with both hands, even though I can’t really feel them. My fingers, my arms, my shoulders, none of them really feel connected to my brain. It’s like my body is a puppet and I control their movements, but they don’t really belong to me.

The Gatorade is heavenly, masking the taste of arse in my mouth and soothing the fire inside me. I drink down as much as I can until my stomach can’t take anymore. It gurgles. I’m starving.

“What time is it?”

Connor checks his phone. “Almost six in the morning.”

No wonder my stomach feels so hollow. I slept right through dinner and straight into the next day. “Did you eat last night?” I ask Connor.

He bites his lip and shakes his head. “I was going to stay with you for a bit and then go down to eat, but then I fell asleep.”

I notice now that he’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday. I feel awful. He shouldn’t neglect himself just to take care of me.

“Are you hungry? I can heat up leftovers for you if you want.” Connor takes the Gatorade bottle when I hand it back to him.

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