We belonged together.
End of story.
And I’d take on the entire universe if it ever tried to take Della away from me.
Then autumn arrived.
Bringing with it more than just its pretty colours of copper and bronze—it heralded my worst nightmare and the reason we left the forest much earlier than we planned.
It all started with a storm.
A particularly terrible storm that ripped our guy-ropes from the ground and scattered our tent pegs in the undergrowth.
Trees cracked as they were uprooted from the earth. Animals screeched as their homes were destroyed. And at some point in the howling, slashing rain, Della crawled into my arms and I hugged her close, keeping her safe from whatever crime we’d committed against Mother Nature for her to hate us so.
It took thirty-six hours for the worst to pass, and everything we owned—including us—was soaked.
The nylon of the tent and its rain sheet couldn’t withstand the torrent and I worried keeping Della from a sturdy house was the right choice.
Eventually, she’d want more than this.
And she’d be fully within her right.
What if she’d gotten hurt?
What if I’d gotten hurt?
What if I wasn’t around to protect her?
As we sorted through our littered and destroyed campsite, nibbling on things we salvaged and drinking fresh rainwater, we did our best to find the tent pegs and tangled guy-ropes, and at some point with our bodies muddy and spirits dull, I made the decision that we needed to be closer to civilisation and not a week’s walk from anywhere.
And thank God I did.
Because a day after we arrived at a campsite, only a few hours’ walk from a town, Della got sick.
Really sick.
Fucking terrify me and make me bargain with the devil sick.
We didn’t often get viruses, and if we did, it was mainly from our quick excursions into towns and touching coins and menus contaminated by other sick people.
But this was different.
For days, she vomited every morning, stayed grey for most of the day, and complained of aching stomach pains that even copious amounts of painkillers couldn’t stop.
I didn’t understand how Della got the stomach flu and I remained untouched. We ate the same things. We were careful about what we cooked. But whatever illness struck, it chose her and chose her hard.
By the end of the fourth day of watching her vomit, and suffering fear and utmost helplessness, I couldn’t handle it anymore. Her assurances that she was getting better were bullshit, and I’d had enough.
I couldn’t listen to her being so ill or watch her gorgeous body become gaunt with malnutrition from not being able to keep anything down.
She had to see a doctor.
Now.
Della was so weak her protests had dwindled to nothing apart from the occasional groan when her tummy hurt and a half-hearted swat when I helped her into a jacket and jeans and tugged her from the camp.
I left behind our belongings, not caring about a single thing.
Nothing mattered.
Only her.
All I took was a smaller rucksack we had for emergencies and stuffed it with our cash, Della’s manuscript, toothbrushes, and a spare set of clothes in case we were delayed for a night or two.
Della followed me slowly, her steps laboured and her skin ghostly. I tried to help her. Tried to offer support and even carry her as we headed down the steep animal tracks to the rye paddocks of some farmer and cut through his land.
But each time I reached out, she pushed me away with a shake of her wobbly head. “I’m fine, Ren. Don’t worry about me.”
But I did worry.
I worried a whole fucking lot and had never been so grateful to see a road when we finally travelled four hours and found a painted path and not a muddy track.
My temper was short from fear, and my patience at her unwillingness to let me help depleted. I was furious at her for getting so ill—as if this were her fault—but mainly I was livid at myself for letting her assure me it would pass, when obviously, it was only getting worse.
If anything happened, I’d never forgive either of us.
“Come on, Della.” My voice was clipped as I held out my hand, hoping now she was on the road she’d quicken.
But if anything, the opposite happened. The moment her boots found level concrete, her shoulders slouched, and she seemed to fade before my eyes.
“Fuck.” Marching to her, I scooped her off the road and cradled her close. “I’m never going to forgive you for this.”
She smiled weakly. “For getting ill?”
“For not letting me help.”
Her head thudded against my chest and stayed there as she closed her eyes, no longer even pretending she was strong enough to fight me. “You’re helping now.”
“Yes, and you’re about to pass out on me.”
“Nuh uh.” She yawned as she clutched her lower belly. “I’m still here.”