Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel (32 page)

I take them gratefully, then wait impatiently for her to settle back into my arms. I miss the feel of her, the warmth of her. She doesn’t do that, though. Instead, she finally remembers she’s naked—which sucks, if you ask me—and slips into a pair of black flannel pajamas she grabs from the suitcase on the floor.

“How you doing?” she asks, nodding to the can of soda in my hand. “You want another one? Or some water?”

“I’m good.” I hold my hand out to her and she takes it. But she doesn’t let me pull her back into my arms. Instead, she sits down on the edge of the bed and spends a few minutes clenching and unclenching her free hand in her lap. It’s how I know she’s going to tell me something she doesn’t think I’m going to like—even before she opens her mouth.

I beat her to the punch. “You think I’m going to fuck it all up.”

“What? No! Ash, of course not. You’re doing an amazing job with Logan. Everyone knows that.”

“But?”

She shakes her head. “There’s no but.”

“There’s always a but. Besides, I can see it in your eyes.”

“No. No but. You’re right. Not about fucking up—because I think you’re amazing with
him and the fact that you worry so much proves that you’re going to keep being amazing. But of course you’re worried about Logan. With what he’s been through, and what you’ve been through, who wouldn’t be?”

“But?”

She sighs, runs a hand through her hair so many times that the short strands end up standing straight up. Somehow, she only looks more adorable. “But I think you’re both right in this situation.”

“Told you there was a but.” I stand up, walk over to the balcony door and push it open. Suddenly the room feels too small, like there’s not enough air. I step out onto the balcony, brace my hands on the guardrail and try to breathe through the chaos inside of me.

“It wasn’t a but,” she insists, following me. “It was an addendum.”

“Same thing. Besides, you said but.”

I’m not looking at her, but I don’t have to be to know she’s rolling her eyes. “Seriously? That’s what you want to argue about right now?”

“I don’t want to argue at all.”

“Me, neither.” Her arms wrap around my waist, and she rests her head in the center of my back—right over where my heart is beating, hard and fast. “You’re going to freeze out here.”

“Nah. It feels good.”

She mutters something under her breath that sounds an awful lot like,
dipshit adrenaline junkie
. But she doesn’t mention going back in again, just stands there, holding me, until my heart starts to settle and I can breathe again.

“You know, the car accident that killed your parents and paralyzed Logan … it was catastrophic. Absolutely, unbelievably awful and I am so, so sorry that you guys had to go through that. So, so, so sorry, Ash. I need you to know that before I say anything else.

“But when something like that happens, when the whole world falls apart around you, I think it’s very easy to get caught up in the bad. To get stuck in it so that it’s all you see.”

“I’m sorry. Is there some good in this that I’m missing?” I mean to sound sarcastic but the words catch in my throat and I end up sounding pathetic.

Her arms tighten around me and it’s her turn to press kisses between my shoulder blades. “Yes, actually. I think there is. I mean, it’s understandable for you to feel like this. It hasn’t even been a year yet since your parents died. Logan is getting all kinds of PT and OT and he’s nowhere close to being self-sufficient yet. Not that he’s supposed to be—he is only fourteen—but he’s not as self-sufficient as he once was, either.”

“Do you think I care about that? Do you think it matters to me that he can’t get dressed on his own yet? Or that he still has a catheter? That doesn’t matter—”

“Of course it matters! He’s your brother and you hate to see him in pain. Hate to see him
lose so much. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t. But, Ash, there’s a difference between having empathy for someone and having sympathy for them. You can have all the empathy in the world, can want to help Logan however you can, but you
can’t
feel sorry for him.”

“Of course I feel sorry—”

“No. That’s what I’m saying. You can’t. Because if you feel sorry for him, you make him feel like less than he is. You make him feel like it’s not okay that he’s the way he is.”

“It’s not okay! He was fine and now he’s not. He’s lost his parents—”

“You lost your parents, too.”

Her words are like a fresh slash right through my heart. I feel like I’m bleeding out, even though there’s no wound. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t wake up every morning thinking about my mom and dad? About how much I miss them? About how disappointed they’d be in me for the mess I’m making of everything? It’s all I can think about! That and Logan—” I break off.

“Being paralyzed,” Tansy finishes for me.

I nod.

“That’s not going to change, you know.”

“What?” Confused, I turn to look at her.

“Logan is always going to be paralyzed and there’s nothing you’re going to be able to do about that fact.”

“Jesus. You think I don’t know that?” Anger crackles in my voice, in the fists I’ve clenched by my sides, but Tansy doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t look away.

“I think you want it to be different. I think you spend a lot of time imagining how different things would be if he could walk. But he can’t walk, Ash, and he’ll never be able to walk again.”

“Goddamnit! I am well aware of that fact. I’ve seen the MRIs. I’ve talked to the doctors. I know exactly what’s wrong with my brother.”

“Yes, you do. But you can’t—or won’t—move past it. You’re so caught up in what was or what should be that you haven’t accepted what is. Logan can feel that and it makes it harder for him to accept it.”

Her words slam into me like actual physical blows and I curl in on myself. Try to protect myself from the pain of each hit. But I can’t, because she’s still talking.

“He worships you, Ash. He
adores
you. And the fact that you can’t accept him the way he is now—that has to be crushing him. He doesn’t need much, but he needs to know that you love him just the way he is. The way he’ll always be from now on.”

“Of course I accept him! I love him more than anything! I would do anything for that kid—”

“I know that.” She holds me tighter, her softness seeping through the rigidity pressing in on me from all sides. “And deep down, so does he, I’m sure. But maybe you need to tell him that. Maybe you need to tell him that you love him exactly as he is. And that Logan being paralyzed doesn’t change anything important between you.”

She doesn’t say anything else, but then she doesn’t have to. Her words ring in my ears. They seep through every cell in my body, work their way into my every breath. And much as I want to scream at her and drown out the truth, much as I want to deny what she’s said, I can’t. Because it’s true.

Because somehow Tansy, with all her fragility and all her fumbling, has managed to articulate exactly what I need to hear. Not what I want to hear, but what I
need
to hear. What I need to
know
.

The realization comes at the same time it registers on me that she’s freezing, her teeth all but chattering. Remorse moves through me and I wrap her in my arms even as I walk her back into her room and close the door behind us.

Then I grab a blanket from the bed and wrap it around her, chafing my hands against her arms and back in an effort to create more heat. Fuck. I really am a bastard sometimes.

“Are you okay?” I ask her, furious at myself. Never has she felt as small, as fragile, as she does at this moment, shivering violently against me.

“I’m fine.” But she holds on to me, wraps her arms around me. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

“I’m fine, too.”

“You sure?” Her gaze searches mine.

“I’m positive.” And as I curl myself around her, trying to transfer as much of my heat to her as I can, I realize that for the first time in a long time, I really am certain. Yes, I’ve made a mess of things with Logan. Yes, I’ve made mistakes. But maybe Tansy’s right. If I talk to him—really talk to him—maybe he’ll really listen.

It’s no guarantee. But it’s more than I’ve had to hold on to for a long time. And right now, with Tansy in my arms and Logan safe with Z down the hall, it’s more than enough.

I’m hot. The realization sinks into my consciousness slowly, wakes me from a deep sleep and has me kicking the covers off in a belated, and useless, attempt to cool down. My throat feels parched and I try to sit up, only to be anchored in place by something heavy around my waist.

I jolt, start to freak out, but last night comes flooding back. After going back to his room, only to be told to get the hell out by Logan, Ash had made sure Victor would spend the night with his brother and then come back to me. It’s Ash who is in bed with me right now. Ash who has his arm wrapped around my stomach, holding me close.

No wonder I’m so hot. The guy is like a furnace, radiating heat when he’s asleep.

Pushing his arm off me, I ignore his muttered protest, and stumble through the dark to the mini-bar. I fumble around until I find a cold bottle of water, then pop the cap and drink the entire thing down in a few long gulps.

It doesn’t help. I still feel like I’m burning up.

Alarm bells start going off in my head, but I refuse to even acknowledge them. Instead, I feel my way along the wall until I get to the bathroom. Once there, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my face. Once, twice, then again and again in an effort to cool down.

It doesn’t work, either.

Flicking on the light, I reach for a towel and dry my face. Then I glance in the mirror, wondering if I look as hot as I feel. It turns out, I look even hotter.

My skin is flushed a bright pink, all the way down to the neckline of my pajama top, my lips are dry and red and my eyes are fever bright. The alarm bells ring louder and this time I can’t ignore them. They’re all but screaming in my head.

Shit, shit, shit. This can’t be happening. This just can’t be happening.

I press a hand to my forehead and nearly whimper at how cold my fingers feel after splashing in the water—and how hot my head still feels. Damn it. I’m running a fever.

I’m running a fever
.

A little freaked out now, despite my determination to keep calm, I cast around trying to see if I have any other symptoms of sickness. My nose is completely clear, my throat doesn’t hurt, my lungs feel fine, I don’t even have a headache. Nope, there are no signs at all that I’ve
come down with a cold or the flu.

Damn it.

Fear creeps in despite my determination not to let it, and for a moment I can’t do anything but think about the last time this happened. The last time I ran an inexplicable fever and ended up in the ICU, a victim of bone marrow biopsies and a million other tests, all of which told my parents the same thing. The chemo had failed. The cancer was back, stronger than before.

But it isn’t like that this time, I tell myself frantically. Dr. Gardner promised me that the cancer was in full remission. He did all the tests, gave me a clean bill of health. He warned me that I would have to have tests done at six months and at a year, but there was nothing to make him believe that I wasn’t currently in full remission.

Nothing but this goddamned fever, that is.

For long seconds, I’m all but paralyzed with helplessness. With fear. With an absolute inability to do anything but stare at myself in the mirror in growing horror.

I clear my throat, search desperately for some sign of a throat ache. Some sign of a headache. There is none. There’s nothing, save the sick feeling inside of me that is growing with every passing second.

I beat it down, try to think, try to reason this thing out. But there is no reason here, there is nothing but the sick and terrible fear clawing its way along my every nerve ending. It can’t be back. Please, please, please, it just can’t be back.

But the statistics are there, those mocking numbers that tell me it doesn’t make sense for me to be alive. They are the same numbers that gave me only a five percent chance to live all those years ago when this disease first invaded my body.

Five percent.

I’ve beaten those odds for ten long years, but maybe this is it. Maybe the doctors are wrong. Maybe my luck really has run out.

And maybe I’m being a melodramatic crazy person, I tell myself harshly as I dry the last of the water from my face and step back into the bedroom. The logical thing to do is to take a couple Tylenol and crawl back into bed. See if the acetaminophen helps the fever go down. If it does, I’m probably overreacting. If it doesn’t … well, if it doesn’t, then I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I leave the bathroom light on and use it to guide me to my purse and the bottle of Tylenol I opened for Ash just a few hours ago. I dry-swallow them—a trick that comes with years and years of practice swallowing pills when even the slightest bit of water would turn my always nauseated stomach. Then I crawl into bed and cuddle as close to Ash as I can get.

He wraps his arm around me, pulls me flush against his body. And I lie there, staring straight ahead, watching the minutes slowly, slowly, slowly scroll past on the alarm clock
balanced on the nightstand right in front of me.

Ninety-seven minutes have passed when the heat once again gets the best of me and I throw the covers off for a second time. Ninety-seven minutes is plenty of time for the Tylenol to work. More than plenty of time for the fever to come down. But I just feel hotter, if that’s possible, like I’m burning from the inside out.

Tears burn the back of my eyelids, but I blink them away. No use crying right now. Not when I don’t know anything. And not when tears won’t change anything anyway.

It’s six o’clock now, early still considering what time Ash and I went to bed last night. But late enough that I’m hoping Timmy’s nurse will be up. Ericka is really nice, and while she’s a home health care nurse, she’s one who has specialized in cancer patients for most of her career. We’ve talked numerous times while we’ve been out on the half-pipe, watching Timmy and waiting for the boarding to shut down for the night.