Page 73 of Something Forever

She grins, a sloppy, adorable smile that makes my heart skip a beat.

“I’m gonna call my dad,” I tell her, still keeping my voice low. “I’ll tell him not to come.”

“No,” she replies, sitting up completely. She winces at the low light in the room. “No, don’t do that. I’ll be fine by tonight, I’m sure. I just have to sleep it off.”

“Okay,” I agree easily, wanting her to lie back down. I don’t want to stress her out any further. “Go back to sleep.”

I try to make her drink the coffee, but she slaps my hand away, taking the cup from me and taking a small sip. She pulls her mask back down over her eyes, and curls into that damned ball again, looking so small and delicate and… breakable.

My stomach lurches again.

Running my hand over her forehead and through her hair, I slowly massage her scalp. She moans, an affirmative sound that makes my whole body fill with warmth.

“Good?” I ask, confirming. She nods, so I continue caressing the top of her head, running my fingers through the strands of her hair. “Sleep,” I say in a low voice, and she does. Her breathing evens out and she falls back asleep, looking like an angel despite her illness.

Working quickly, I grab my stuff from my room and clean up, trying to make it look more like a guest bedroom and less like a man cave. Once I gather everything, I bring it over to Whitney’s room, unpacking silently so I don’t wake her. Once I finish, I go on Amazon and order a headache hat, a migraine aromatherapy stick, and some Excedrin.

The hours pass quickly, and when I’m done prepping for Dad, I settle onto the sofa. Before I have time to relax, my phone buzzes with an email from Rebecca, responding to the proposal that I sent her a few weeks ago. I honestly thought she’d forgotten about our conversation at the gala and her promise to look over my plan. When I open her email, I almost wish I hadn’t. Scanning through it quickly, I try not to panic, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to stay calm as the words flash in front of me.

Incomplete.

Missing key components.

Inadequate funding.

Some part of me hoped that despite her discouraging words at the gala, she’d change her mind when she saw my actual plan. Turns out I couldn’t be more wrong. If I thought I was upset after Rebecca’s comments, that was nothing compared to this detailed rejection. I don’t have time to dwell on the stab of disappointment because I get a text from my dad that he’s on his way, so I reply with a thumbs-up emoji.

Show time.

Not knowing what else to do and wanting to see her face again, I go back into Whitney’s room and glance at her sleeping form. She rouses again, so I move to the side of the bed, reaching for her hand and intertwining our fingers. Brushing the back of her hand softly, I study her for a hint of how she’s feeling. She tugs the sleep mask back again, her eyes connecting with mine.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi,” I whisper back, pressing our palms together. “How are you feeling?”

“Good as new,” she says.

“Are you sure?” I reach for the cup of coffee, which is cold. “Do you want more coffee? Or water? I brought you a La Croix.”

Her nose crinkles, a smile tugging at her lips again. “You’re a very good nurse, Mr. Clark.”

“If you’re waiting for me to be embarrassed, don’t hold your breath. You scared the shit out of me, Mrs. Clark.”

“It happens sometimes. It’s been a while. I used to get them a lot when I was younger.”

I shake my head. “Don’t tell me that. I’ll have an aneurysm,” I joke. Well, I pretend it’s a joke. The truth is every time I see her wince in pain, it feels like someone is putting a knife through me.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispers.

“I got you a headache hat and some other stuff that the internet said you need. I don’t know why you were so ill-equipped for this. You need to take better care of yourself,” I scold her, but instead of looking chastised, she just smiles.

“Okay, doctor. I promise.” She grins, and despite myself, I lean over, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Rebecca’s email may have put a damper on my mood, but Whitney’s got color back in her face and she’s smiling again. Somehow, I helped her feel better, and nothing — not even Rebecca’s firm insistence that the foundation won’t work — can take that away from me.

28

LIAM

“Wow! What a place. You’ve even got laundry? I hear that’s highly coveted.” My dad, Andy, slaps his hand on my back, taking in my apartment. He’s grinning widely and wearing one of his overpriced shirts with awful prints on them. This one’s a blue Cheetah print shirt that for medical reasons (the state of my retinas), should be burned immediately.