Summer
After a long day of walking Shay through Donald Gaskins’ mind, I feel like I need a shower to rinse away the horror. My shower is ridiculous though, tiny and my elbows hit the walls. Once Shay drops me off, I grab a bag of clothing and head over to Justin and Whit’s apartment. I locate the key under the wilted potted plant and let myself in.
I’m halfway to the bathroom when I hear a cough from one of the bedrooms. I know Justin’s at work, we texted earlier. Whit had a full day of surf school. I hear another cough, this time followed by a hard thump on the floor—then a groan. I drop my bag and run to the bedrooms. Justin’s is empty but Whit’s is ajar and I push it open.
His body is a lump on the floor. I fall to my knees and shake his shoulders. “Whit? What’s going on? Talk to me.”
“Summer?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay?” He’s lying on his back, shirtless, eyes closed.
He blinks.
“How long have you been here?”
“A few minutes.”
“Oh.” His eyes are a little glassy. I feel his chest, then forehead. He’s burning up. “What am I doing on the floor?”
“Come on, let’s get you up.” Together we struggle to get his tall, big frame back on the mattress. Once he’s there he sighs from exhaustion. Dark circles ring his eyes and his flushed cheeks.
“I’m pretty sure you have a fever. How long have you been sick?”
“I felt a little weird all day at work yesterday, came home and crashed. I haven’t moved much since.”
“Did you take any medicine for the fever?”
He shakes his head.
“Let me find it.” I leave him in the bedroom and go for the shared bathroom off the main room. In the medicine cabinet I find most everything I need, including a clean washcloth. Grabbing a glass of cool water and soaking the rag, I re-enter the bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed.
I help him shift up and give him the pain medication and lay the cool cloth on his forehead. He links his fingers with mine and moans softly, eyes fluttering closed.
I shift, preparing to move off the bed to let him rest, but he reaches for my hand and says, “Stay with me?”
“Of course.”
Whit lies next to me, sleeping fitfully, until his fever breaks and he’s out like the dead. I ease off the bed and go to the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets until I find a can of chicken noodle soup. I locate a pot and have it warming on the stove when the door opens and Justin and Pete walk in.
“Hey,” I say, stirring the pot.
“What are you doing here?”
“Whit…he’s a sick. And asleep.”
“He said he felt bad last night.” Pete says, walking over and giving me a kiss. Justin follows, kissing my neck and looking into the pot.
“You need anything else?”
“Nah, I’m not even sure he can eat this. His fever is pretty high.”
“Don’t get sick yourself while taking care of him,” Pete adds.
“I’ll try.” I tap my fingers on the counter. “Should we call his dad?”
The boys exchange a glance.
“What?”