Page 43 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

Would have what, exactly?

Ordered him back to bed? Made him a pot of soup? Called Patricia to inform her that, no, he would not be in today? None of that was my responsibility. He wasn’t mine to care for. I knew that.

But that didn’t stop the strange, panicky, and completely illogical need to do something.

For heaven’s sake, the man was shivering. Shivering! Despite the fact that Piedmont was always overly enthusiastic when they turned on the heat every autumn, which meant that the library was warmer than necessary this evening, Max hugged his sweater around his body like he wanted to burrow into it.

It made me ache.

“Kate!” Christine waved her hands in front of my eyes.

I blinked. Everyone was staring at me—except for Max, who stared grimly ahead, as though he had to will himself to stay upright through sheer determination—and I realized that it wasn’t the first time Christine had called my name.

“Are you ready to give the treasurer’s report?” Christine asked, once again giving me that odd look.

“Of course.” I stood and took Christine’s place at the music stand. Normally I would give a very detailed update about where the PTA stood financially, but tonight I breezed through the highlights at record speed. I wanted the meeting over with as quickly as possible so Max could go home.

The second Christine dismissed the meeting, I cornered Max. Up close, I could now see that his nose was red around the nostrils, which he kept wiping with a balled-up tissue. He wasn’t sneezing, just leaky, which meant this couldn’t be chalked up to an allergy attack. Not to mention that he looked even worse now than he had only an hour ago. He was deteriorating before my very eyes.

“You’re sick,” I said accusingly.

He straightened, but the effort clearly cost him something. “No, I’m not. It’s just a cold. I’m not sick.”

“What do you think a cold is, Max? A party? It’s a virus. Which means you’re sick.”

He scowled. “Okay. So?”

I nearly laughed at his belligerent tone. It reminded me of the time Jessica, back when she was eight or nine, had to stay home from her best friend’s birthday party because she was sick. Jessica hadn’t reacted to the news any better than Max did now.

The difference being that Max was a full-grown man, and Jessica had been only a child.

It shouldn’t have been endearing. Man babies were the bane of humanity. But here I was, struggling to resist the urge to coo at him.

“So, go home,” I said. “Go to bed. Take care of yourself.”

“I always do,” he said. Looking…tired. Weary. Like the mere thought of putting himself to bed was too exhausting to contemplate.

The ache deepened.

“Max,” I said softly.

“Don’t get too close,” he warned, backing up a step. “I don’t want you to catch it.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

Kids were germ factories, no doubt about it, and whatever cold had infected Max had already circulated through most of the school—including Jessica, who had been happy to share it with me. Anyway, I had taken care of Jessica through ear infections, several rounds of strep throat, the flu, and at least two colds every year. I very rarely caught anything anymore. Parents had very robust immune systems, thanks to all the germ exposure.

“I just need a good night’s rest,” he said. “I’ll be fine in the morning.”

I stared at him. “No, you will not be fine in the morning. You’re sick. That doesn’t magically go away overnight. You’re not seriously planning on going to work tomorrow, are you?”

“You sound like Patricia. She tried to send me home all day.” He sniffed, wiped his nose, and gave me an annoyed look.

“Good for Patricia,” I said approvingly. “Stay home tomorrow. Rest. Promise me, Max.”

I thought he would argue, but after a pause, he just nodded. The fight had gone out of him. He looked…weak. Weak and miserable. I hated that.

It’s just a cold, I reminded myself. He would be fine in a day or two. He would spend tomorrow in bed or maybe bingeing bad television shows. I had enough on my plate without worrying about a man who was more than capable of taking care of himself.

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