“Shit, babe,” he says and helps me back into bed. “You look awful.” He puts his hand on my forehead. “And you’re burning up.”
“I think I’m gonna throw up,” I say, voice all breathy. Sam dashes out of the room, grabbing the little trashcan from the bathroom just in time for me to puke in it. He holds my hair back and takes the trashcan when I’m done, going to get me tissues to wipe my mouth with. I take a small drink of water, needing to rinse the taste out.
My head still hurts but now that I don’t feel so nauseous, I can open my eyes. “You look concerned,” I mumble.
“I didn’t realize you were so sick,” he says back, looking guilty. “I wouldn’t have left if I’d known.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just threw up.”
“Only because I have a bad headache.”
Sam picks up the thermometer. “Because you’re sick, Chloe.” I close my eyes and can tell by the frantic beeping of the thermometer that I still have a fever.
“It’s high again,” he tells me. “Have you been bundled up?”
“Not really.”
“Do you think you can keep anything down? You can take more Advil now.”
I slowly shake my head back and forth. “No, but I’ll try.”
“I’d rather wait a little while longer than have you throw up again.”
He fixes the pillows and helps me lie down, gently rubbing my back. “How long as the headache been this bad?”
“Um, not long after you left.”
“Do you get migraines often?”
“No.”
“High fevers and severe headaches require medical attention,” he says, voice calm.
“Good thing you’re a doctor.”
“I can’t treat you here. You should have bloodwork done and receive some fluids.” Chills suddenly plague me harder than before, and my body shivers uncontrollably. “There isn’t an urgent care in Silver Ridge, so we’ll have to go to the ER.”
“I don’t need to go to the ER. Give me Advil and a nap and I’ll feel better.”
“You said that this morning,” Sam reminds me. “The fever hasn’t gone down.”
“I might have been bundled. I was cold.”
“Fifteen minutes,” he tells me. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes after you take something for the fever. But, Chloe, if your head hurts this bad, you’re going to need something stronger than Advil.”
I’m pretty sure Dad has some stronger pain pills in the medicine cabinet but I’m lacking the energy to try and convince Sam he should bring me one and forgo the ER all together.
The ER is for emergencies. I’m sick but I’m not having an emergency, though I will admit Sam is right. I don’t have a run-of-the-mill cold like I hoped. Colds don’t make you feel this crappy in such a short amount of time, and this is the one year I didn’t get my flu shot early. Figures, right?
“Lie down with me?” I ask. “My stomach doesn’t feel settled enough to take medicine.”
“Of course.” Sam carefully drapes his arm around me, and I want to roll over and rub his back, but I can’t stop shaking.
“I’m so cold,” I say through chattering teeth.
“I know.” He moves closer, spooning his large body around mine. “Sometimes body heat can help regulate your temperature.”
I feel like crap, and would feel even worse without Sam doting on me. Having him next to me is comforting, and I fall asleep within minutes. Ever since I was a kid, I have the same dream every single time I’m sick. It’s how I know I’m actually sick. Sometimes I’ll have the dream before symptoms set in, and it’s just as bad as getting the grim in a tea leaf reading.
Tonight is no exception, and Sam gently shakes me away just as the giant robot monster starts eating all the flowers in the yard of my childhood home in Silver Ridge.
“Chloe, you okay?” His hand is warm on my skin. “It sounded like you were having a nightmare.”
“I was.” I slowly sit up, head hurting even worse the second I open my eyes. The blinds aren’t drawn, Sam probably having forgotten, and the light coming in from the neighboring buildings is too harsh and way too bright. “Thanks for waking me up.”
“How are you feeling?” He sits up, sheet slipping down his body, revealing his muscular chest. His hair is messy, and knowing how well he’s been taking care of me, how much he worries and loves me, makes me a little emotional. “Any better?”
“Like I’m going to throw up again. I’m dizzy.”
He picks up the thermometer from the nightstand and checks my temp. I can tell by the look on his face my fever hasn’t gone down. “It’s time you go into the ER.”
“Okay,” I say, too worn to try and convince him I don’t need to go. And because I feel like death. I groan and bring my hand to my mouth. Sam picks up the trashcan from the floor and hands it to me. He put a clean trash bag in it, and it’s one of the scented kinds. The smell makes me feel even more nauseous and I get sick again.
Sam helps me get up and dressed and then to his car, muttering to himself the whole time that he should have taken me in sooner, though there’s no way I would have agreed to go before. Like many people, hospitals freak me out. I probably should have kept up with therapy after Mom died, because I get a flash of her in her final stages of cancer, bone-thin, hardly any hair, looking like a fraction of her former self. I remember being angry—so angry—at the doctors and nurses for not doing enough for her. It wasn’t until years later that Dad told me it was Mom’s decision to go on hospice. She didn’t want to live in pain, and she didn’t want us to have to live with her suffering.
I didn’t get it then. I wanted my mom in any way. Sick. Healthy. Happy. Sad. I just wanted her here. But I understand now, how she saw her death as a way to set us free. There was no way around the cancer taking her from us. And I wouldn’t want to suffer any longer than I had to either.
I haven’t been in this hospital since Mom died, and it’s been bought out by a big company and remodeled since then. The general layout is the same, just updated. Sam helps me sit and then signs me in, filling out paperwork for me since I can’t stop shaking. There are only two other people in here, and only a few minutes later, I’m called back. I must look as bad as I feel. I can tell Sam is having a hard time sitting back as my boyfriend and not taking charge as the doctor as the nurse assesses me.
Things move slower from there, but eventually I’m hooked to an IV, laid back on the bed with ice packs next to my head, and pain medication is on the way for my migraine. Sam stays by my side the whole time, running his fingers up and down my arm. I’m still shivering and get even colder when the IV fluids start pumping through my veins.
“Thank you,” I mumble, still hardly able to open my eyes.
“Of course, Chloe. I love you. And I know you’d do the same for me.”
“I would,” I tell him, struggling to keep my eyes open.
The moment I fall asleep, the nurse comes back in with a shot of something to help with my headache. She talks to Sam instead of me, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m half asleep or because she’s one of those people who automatically addresses the man in the room. I’ve had that happen to me many times.
Though, there’s also a good chance she knows who Sam is and knows he’s a doctor. Either way, I’m going to get some relief from this pounding headache and then I can go back home, crash into bed next to Sam, and pray I wake up feeling better so we can enjoy what’s left of the weekend before driving back to Chicago.
The nurse scans my hospital bracelet and starts talking to Sam and asking about Rory. It sounds like she used to work with her in the OR or something. It's hard to follow along with anything right now.
“You should start feeling some relief soon,” she tells me and gets another blanket from the cabinet behind above the sink. She checks my temperature before letting me have it, which I take as a sign it’s going down. “I’ll be back to check on you in just a few minutes.”
&nbs
p; Sam scoots his chair back over to the side of the bed and helps me straighten out the blanket. I open my mouth to tell him thanks but suddenly feel weird. I’m light-headed. The room spins. I inhale but get no air.
“Sam,” I breathe, and it’s like my blood is suddenly itchy. The last thing I remember is Sam springing up from the chair. And then everything goes black.
“I’m fine.” I close my eyes, holding my phone up to my ear.
“If you were fine, would you have been admitted to the hospital?” Dad counters.
“Well, possibly but under false pretenses of me actually being sick so they can inject me with some sort of experimental drug that will turn me into a mutant super-solider.”
“It’s good to hear you joking, kid. Is Sam still there?”
“Yeah, he’s been here the whole time. He just went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat, but he’ll be back up soon.”
It’s nearing the evening, and Sam has to be exhausted. I had an allergic reaction to the pain medication, which made my heart rate drop dangerously low. I passed out and don’t remember anything other than feeling like my whole body was too heavy to move. Now I’m in a room, hooked up to IVs and wires. I’ll be here at least overnight for observation, and my flu test came back positive, and my symptoms are being treated.
My head isn’t pounding anymore, and the fever went down thanks to the IV fluids. I still feel pretty shitty, but I’m worlds different than how I felt when Sam first brought me in. He’s already called off work tomorrow, not wanting to leave me.
“Can you have him call me when he’s back in the room?” Dad asks. “I trust him to give me a report on my only daughter’s health more than I trust you.”
“Thanks,” I retort.
“And I need to thank him for making you go in and not trying to treat the migraine and dehydration with positive thoughts and lemon oil.”
“Thieves, Dad. It’s thieves oil that solves everything. Geez, get it right.” Dad laughs, and I yawn.
“You sound tired, honey, put the phone down and get some rest. Forward me Sam’s contact info and I’ll call him later.”
“Okay. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, Chloe.”
I send Dad a text with Sam’s number, and then let the phone drop onto my lap. All I want to do is sleep. Every time I get close to falling asleep someone comes in to check on me, or the blood pressure cuff on my arm inflates, startling me and waking me up. This time, I’m almost asleep when the nurse comes in to check on me.
“Looks like you have some visitors,” she says when she’s done fixing my IV line, which got a little twisted as I tried to get comfortable. I look past her and see Mrs. Harris and Mason standing in the doorway.
“Hi,” I say and raise my hand to push my hair back, forgetting about the IV line in my arm again. I must look like hell, and I hate that I’m embarrassed by it. I’m sick, and no one expects me to be put together. “You guys didn’t have to come.”
“Of course we did.” Mrs. Harris comes into the room, and Mason sets a vase of yellow roses on the bedside table. “I was so worried when Sam called and said you were admitted.” She looks around the room. “Where is he?”
“He went to get something to eat,” I tell her. “He should be back soon.” I hope so at least. I don’t like pity, and while it was really nice that Mrs. Harris and Mason came by to visit, I feel awkward sitting here.
“How are you feeling?” Mrs. Harris asks.
“Worn out. I’m ready to go home now. I don’t like hospitals.”
“I don’t either,” Mason agrees. “I’ve left AMA the last two times I was supposed to be admitted.”
“What does AMA mean?” Mrs. Harris asks.
“Against medical advice,” Sam tells her, coming back into the room. I smile as soon as I see him, so fucking grateful to have a guy as good as Sam in my life. “And that’s what I’d expect from someone who tried to use potato flakes to stop bleeding.”
“What?” I ask, not sure I heard Sam right.
“He read an article online that said potato flakes will stop bleeding,” Sam explains.
“So you like smashed them into a wound?” My brows go up. “That’s disgusting.”
Mason shrugs. “It worked. How long do you think you’ll be here?”
“Hopefully just over night. We need to get back to Chicago,” I reply, trying not to get stressed. I took the weekend off from writing but can’t afford any more time away. And Sam has to get back to work and I know he doesn’t want to leave me, though I wouldn’t be alone.
I already had to talk my dad into staying at Wendy’s sister’s instead of rushing back here. I’m not dying, and my plan is to leave in the morning and go back to Chicago with Sam anyway. But even if Sam has to go back without me, Mrs. Harris will make sure I’m taken care of.
“We’ll see how your labs are in the morning,” Sam says, going around his mother and brother to look at the monitors next to the bed.
“How annoying is it to have him here with you?” Mason asks, and Mrs. Harris gives him a pointed look.
“He’s been wonderful,” I say with a yawn. “Very attentive. I’m lucky I have him.”
“I’m the lucky one,” Sam says, blue eyes meeting mine.
“Gross,” Mason huffs. “At least I’m in the right place for when I get sick and throw up.”
“Oh hush,” Mrs. Harris tells him, swatting his arm with the back of her hand. “I think it’s sweet and them together—”
“Makes you happy,” both Sam and Mason say at the same time.
I start coughing again, and the jolting makes my headache come back. I’m due for more pain medicine. I think? Maybe? I lost all sense of time and only know it’s getting later by the diminishing sunlight. I don’t even remember when we came in. Eleven maybe? Sam has been by my side this whole time, and he might have badgered the ER doctor just a bit for not doing something he insisted I needed. More tests maybe? Everything is still fuzzy in my mind up until recently.
I remember the moment before I passed out, and am starting to remember flashes of people running into the room. I think I remember Sam standing next to my bed, his handsome face twisted with fear and worry, but I can’t be sure I didn’t dream it. Regardless, he’s been my rock through these scary last few hours, keeping me calm when the doctor told me how serious the reaction was and how much worse it could have been if I hadn’t received such a fast intervention.
I’ve had a handful of boyfriends in the past. Some I hoped things would get serious with, not because I was in love with them, but because I wanted to love them. It was naive of me to think if I stayed with someone long enough, those feelings would develop over time. I write romance. I of all people should know that’s now how a healthy relationship is born.
Though, no matter how long I was with someone, the feelings wouldn’t have developed because I already had those feelings for Sam. And if the shitty last few hours have proved anything, it’s just how good we are together.
“Do you need anything before we go?” Mrs. Harris asks. “You look exhausted, honey.”
“I am. Thanks for coming to check on me. And for the flowers. They’re really pretty.”
“You’re family,” she says with a warm smile, and out of the corner of my eye I notice Sam looking all tense again. He looks way, hand going to the back of his neck. He does that when he’s stressed, I’ve noticed, and I don’t quite get why he seems stressed anytime someone brings up me being part of the family.
“I’m leaving tonight,” Mason says. “I’m assuming I’ll see you at Thanksgiving? Well, if I’m able to get away from my next assignment long enough to come back.”
I flick my eyes to Sam, feeling a little awkward all of a sudden. It’s a given we’re spending the holidays together, right? Mrs. Harris brought it up yesterday.
“I think so.”
“Good. I’ll bring more whiskey,” he says with a grin. Mrs. Harris gives me a hug goodbye and I let my eyes fall s
hut as soon as they’re gone. I get a whole thirty seconds of sleep before a nursing assistant comes in to see if I need more water, which I do.
“You can go home and go to sleep,” I tell Sam when the aide leaves to bring me another Styrofoam cup of water. “You look tired, and I know it’s not exactly fun sitting here.”
“I don’t want to leave you.” His eyes meet mine and my heart swells in my chest. And then I immediately start coughing.
“Ugh, why am I feeing worse?”
“I’ll find your nurse. The medicine you were given when you first got admitted is starting to wear off.” He comes over and touches my forehead. “I’m worried your fever is going to come back.”
“It’s freezing in here. I don’t think it will.”
“You know it doesn’t work that way,” he says with a smile, knowing I’m poking at him. “And it is a little cold in here. If you’re not feverish, I’ll get you another blanket too.”
“Thank you. You really have taken good care of me today.”
“I love you, Chloe.” His brows pinch together, and he looks conflicted, which is even more confusing than him getting all freaked out whenever us having a family is mentioned.
“I love you, too,” I say. “And only one of us can be sick at a time, and if you don’t get any sleep, you’ll be next. Like you said, you’re already exposed.”
“Stop being logical,” he says back with a lopsided grin. “I’ll stay until visiting hours are over, unless you want me to stay the night with you. Do you want me to bring you anything from the house?”
“New pajamas, my phone charger, and my plotting notebook.”
“Really?” Sam hikes up his eyebrows. “You want to work?”
“I’m a workaholic, I know.”
“You really need to rest so you can get better.”
“I know. I’m worried I won’t be able to sleep and not having anything to keep myself occupied with makes me anxious.”
“I get that,” he tells me. “I’ll bring it as long as you promise you won’t push yourself to stay up. Sleep when your body wants to sleep.”
“I promise.” I’m feeling tired right now. “It’s not very comfortable here. I like to sleep on my side, and I have all this shit on me.” I look at the wires monitoring my heart rate—which is fine now—along with the blood pressure cuff and the IV lines.
Desperate Times (Silver Ridge Series Book 2) Page 17
