Running Home to You (The Running Series) (51 page)

“Baby, it’s not that cold in here.  Do you feel alright?” 

“No.  Can you please get me another blanket?  I’m so cold,” I tell him through chattering teeth.

Evan walks over and sits beside me on the bed.  He places a hand on my forehead and frowns.  “Juliette, no wonder you’re so cold, you’re burning up.” 

No, I can’t be sick.  Not now.  Not today.  Evan disappears for a moment, and then returns with another blanket, two Tylenol and a glass of water.  “Here, take these,” he insists as he tosses a warm blanket over me.  “I’m going to grab something to eat.  I’ll come back to check on you in a few.  Close your eyes and try to get more sleep.”

I do as Evan requests and close my eyes, trying to sleep off whatever might be making me ill.  The next thing I know, Evan is tiptoeing around the room in the dark, trying not to disturb me.  He seems to be gathering things to pack for his overnight trip.  I try to sit up, but the moment I lift my head off the pillow, I can feel it pounding.  As I reach over to grab the glass of water Evan left on my nightstand, I am overtaken by a coughing fit. 

Evan comes over and sits with me, again checking for fever.  “You’re still pretty warm, baby.  What can I get for you?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble as I get up, swinging my legs off the side of the bed.  “Let me get into the shower and see how I feel.”  Ooh, I feel woozy when I move too quickly.  I squint my eyes, looking at the clock in horror.  “Holy crap, Evan, is it really eleven o’clock already?  How did that happen?”

“I may not be an expert, Juliette, but I’m pretty sure you’re sick.”

I drag myself to the bathroom and try to pull it together.  It’s no use.  My muscles ache and I can’t get warm.  With Evan’s help, I curl up on the couch, wrapped up in a warm blanket with a box of tissues and the remote control.  There will be no road trip for me today.

“Do you want me to call anyone to come over and sit with you?” Evan asks.  “I hate to think about you here all alone like this.”

“No, baby.  I’ll be fine.  It’s not like I’ve never been sick before.  I’ll probably sleep for a day or so.  Hopefully by the time you come home tomorrow night, the worst of it will be over.  Besides, everyone else has work.”

“Not Auggie,” Evan suggests.  “I could call him to come over.”

In between coughs I remind him that Auggie’s immune system is still compromised from the loss of his spleen.  He can’t fight off infection like he used to.  He really shouldn’t be around anyone who’s sick yet. 

“Well, what do you want me to tell Auggie when I drop Maddy off at his house and you’re not with me?” Evan asks.

“Tell him I’m still packing.  He’ll believe you.  Don’t tell him I’m home alone and sick.  He’ll insist on coming over.”  I know Auggie will throw all caution to the wind and come sit with me, even if the only thing wrong with me is a common cold.  I’ll be better in a day or two, but if Auggie catches my germs, he could wind up in the hospital.

“Okay, but are you sure I can’t call Emmy or Reese?” Evan asks, but again I refuse.

Evan heats up a can of my favorite soup, Campbell’s Chicken and Stars, and helps me get settled.  It’s the best comfort food, warming me from the inside out.  I watch as he finishes getting ready.  He gives me some last minute instructions before he leaves.

“I’m taking the Optima.  I’d rather not leave the Porsche in overnight parking.  The keys are on the counter if you need to go out.  I’ll call you the minute I land.”  Evan kisses me on the forehead and smiles.  “I’ll miss you.  There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep tonight knowing you’re home alone like this.”  As he walks towards the door he says to me, “Wish me luck!  Love you!”

“Love you, too,” I reply, barely loud enough for him to hear.  “Go put up some big numbers, chief.”  He turns and just like that, he and Maddy are gone.  Off to the biggest event of his professional career.  And I’m left here, relegated to the couch to watch it all unfold on national television.

Evan took good care of me before he left.  I’ve got everything I could possibly need within reach – bottles of water, daytime and nighttime cough syrup, tissues, my cell phone, television remote, and a banana.  Just as promised, Evan calls me the minute his plane lands.  They are being shuttled to their hotel to check in, and then he’ll eat dinner with the team and have some last minute strategy meetings. 

After Evan’s phone call, I lie back down, covering myself with Evan’s blanket.  Just like everything else in this house, it smells like him.  I pull it up to my chin and inhale his rich, masculine scent.  When I close my eyes, it’s easy to imagine that he’s here with me now, wrapping his arms and legs around mine, keeping me warm and safe.  As I drift off to sleep, I dream of stadiums and cheering fans, all chanting Evan’s name.

Hours later, my cellphone rings and my head springs off the pillow.  Momentarily, I’m confused.  It’s dark outside and the only light in the house is being cast by the television.  I grab the phone and check the time.  It’s ten o’clock at night.  How many hours have I been sleeping? Evan is calling to say good night.  “Hey, baby,” I answer groggily.

“Hey, yourself.  You sound terrible.  How do you feel?  Should I call someone to come over?”  I hate that he’s worried about me.  He should be concentrating on the game, not me.

“No, I’m okay.  I was sound asleep, that’s all.”  I hold the phone away from my face as a coughing jag takes control of me.

“Yeah, you sound great,” he answers sarcastically.  “Do you think you can make it another twenty-four hours or so until I come home?”

“I’ll survive.  All I want to do is sleep.  It’s just as well that you’re not here.  There’s nothing you could do.  I just have to wait it out until it passes.”  My head hurts and my eyelids feel heavy.  I rub my face, trying to wake myself up enough to hold a conversation.

“Well, when I get home, I’m going to make you some homemade mac and cheese and run you a nice hot bubble bath.  How does that sound?”  God, I love the sound of his voice.

“That sounds amazing.”  I pause for the first of a series of big yawns.  Once I start, it’s hard to stop.  “What are you doing right now?” I ask.

“Just lying here, all alone, thinking of you.”  I must really be sick because the sexiest man in the world just told me he’s lying alone in a hotel bed thinking of me and the only thing I can think about is going back to sleep.

Between yawns, I force a response, “Mm, me too.”

Evan tells me a little about the flight and the hotel, and all I can do is add the occasional, “Oh,” or “Mm,” to the conversation.  Evan promises to call me in the morning to check in and I’m back asleep before I put the phone down.

The next time I open my eyes, the sun is shining brightly off the ocean, bathing the living room in vivid hues of blue and green.  It’s beautiful how the reflection of the morning sun off the ocean beams through the sliding glass door into the living room.  I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.  Based on the position of the sun in the sky, I’d say it’s no later than seven in the morning.  I slept a solid nine hours, so why don’t I feel better?

I drag myself up and into the shower.  A long, hot shower might help warm me up and relax my sore muscles.  My ribs and stomach muscles ache, and it’s hard to take a deep breath.  All this coughing and sneezing is killing me.  I’m glad Evan’s not here to see me like this.

Blow-drying my hair is a challenge, but I’m determined not to lie down with wet hair.  I shuffle into the kitchen to make myself a cup of Licorice Spice Herbal Tea when my phone rings.  Just as I thought, it’s Evan calling to make sure I made it through the night.  Although I can barely move, I force myself to put on a good show.  Evan has to believe that I’m better.  He needs to stop worrying about me and concentrate on his game. 

I curl up on the couch, wrapped up in a warm blanket, and do the best I can to keep up an intelligent conversation with Evan.  I’m a better actor than I give myself credit for, because Evan actually believes me.  He stops asking to send someone to the house to check on me, finally.  He sounds pumped about the game and his team’s odds at winning.  Even though the Lions have the home advantage, all bets are on a Sentinel’s victory.  We end the call with a promise to talk one final time after lunch.  After that, we will be in a communication blackout until after the game.

With each passing hour, I’m feeling worse.  My sinuses are now blocked, and yet my nose is running like a leaky faucet.  How is this even possible?  Now I cannot lay my head down and rest comfortably.  The pressure in my head multiplies with each attempt.  And I still can’t seem to get warm enough.  I transfer myself to the recliner and take catnaps while sitting up.  Maybe I should have accepted Evan’s offer to have someone come over to take care of me.  Another cup of tea might help clear my sinuses, but I can’t find the energy to get up and make it myself.

When Evan calls again, I put on another award winning performance.  I wish him luck and make some excuse about wanting to make myself a hot lunch.  I blow my nose for the hundredth time, and flip through the channels trying to find something that will surely lull me into a deep sleep.  When I find “Across the Universe”, I put the remote down and let the beautifully lyrical songs transport me to a somewhat restful sleep.

Eventually, the sun begins to set and I try to make myself something to eat.  I haven’t had anything more than a few spoonfuls of chicken soup to eat all day.  Surely, if I want to get better, I should get some nutrition into my body.  Wrapped tightly in a blanket, I waddle back into the kitchen and rummage through the pantry looking for something that doesn’t make my stomach twist and turn.  I find a can of SpaghettiOs, and decide to make the best of it.  Pouring the contents into a bowl and programming the microwave is about all the cooking I can handle at the moment.

I put on ESPN to listen to the pregame predictions and plop myself down at the kitchen table.  Each mouthful gets increasingly harder to swallow.  Food doesn’t seem to be agreeing with me right now.  I don’t know if it’s the acid in the sauce or the chemical preservatives in the meal, but minutes after trying to eat, I feel my stomach muscles clenching, threatening to violently clear itself of its unacceptable contents.

Ultimately, I can hold back the urge no longer, and I find myself sitting on the floor in the bathroom with my hands wrapped around the cold comfort of the toilet, retching brutally.  As my body convulses with each wave of nausea, I am shivering and shaking with fever.  With my stomach completely void of its contents, I hope for an end to the painful eruptions.  When the next wave starts again, I lower my face into the porcelain bowl, wondering what is about to come expelling out of my body.  There’s no food left to purge.

The cold leather of the couch and the single blanket are no longer enough to give me comfort.  Grabbing the bottle of Nighttime Cold Medicine, I fill the cup to the brim and down it in one shot.  If one capful is good, then two must be better.  One more dose and I put the bottle back down.  I turn off all the lights and the television and return to the bedroom.

Time to watch the game.  After turning on the small TV in our room, I crawl into my comfy bed.  Even with the layers of blankets, my body still tremors, struggling to get warm.  I focus on the image on the television as the whistle blows and the kickoff starts the game.  I smile to myself, wondering what Evan is doing at this very moment.

I watch with a mixture of pride and terror as Evan completes play after play.  When he gets sacked and goes crashing to the ground beneath the force of a man twice his size and weight, I cannot breathe until I see him get up and walk back to the huddle.  I say a silent prayer to God to keep him safe.

Excitement rips through me as the Sentinels make their way down the field without losing possession.  With less than twenty yards to go, the ball is snapped, and Evan scans the field looking for someone who’s open.  He finds his friend and wide receiver, Carlo Rivera, unprotected deep in the end zone.  He sends the ball down the field and into the deft hands of Carlo for the first touchdown of the game.  His teammates rush to congratulate him as they jog off the field so the place kicker can attempt the extra point.  I’m smiling so broadly my face actually hurts.

My mind races with images of what must be happening at Rush right now.  I can imagine the cheers that must be exploding; Marcus and Derek giving each other high fives; Emmy squealing with delight.  I wish I were there with them right now.

I watch in glory as Evan completes another touchdown.  By the time halftime arrives, the score is 14 to 3.  The cameras follow Evan as he makes his way off the field.  His hair is drenched with sweat, his face is covered in dirt, and his uniform is caked in filth, but when he smiles for the camera, I swear I’ve never seen anything so hot in my entire life.

As the football commentators dissect the plays during halftime, my eyelids grow heavier and heavier.  I listen to them praise Evan’s early performance and each of them takes credit for having predicted his domination on the field from the very beginning.  When they break for commercial, I decide to close my eyes just for a few minutes.  That’s the last thing I remember.

I am jolted awake by the shrill din of the smoke alarm assaulting my eardrums.  I open my eyes to discover the room is filling with smoke.  Thick, heavy black smoke is hovering above me, completely covering the ceiling.  The room is dark, lit only by the glow of the television.  My head is throbbing and I feel like everything is happening in slow motion.  I scramble out of bed, keeping as low to the ground as I can.  I sweep my hands across the nightstand, trying desperately to find a phone, but my cell isn’t there.  I can’t think clearly.  I have no idea where it might be.

I make my way out of the bedroom and down the hallway, only to discover that the entire house is filled with smoke.  I try very hard to remember everything I learned in school about house fires.  We were taught to stay low to the ground and test doorknobs for heat before opening any doors.  The house is pitch black.  I know that where there’s smoke, there must be fire, but I have yet to see any flames.