The Reason for Me

by Prescott Lane

  My phone rings. I know it’s Meg. Told you she has a sixth sense about me. Still, there is no way I’m pulling myself off the floor to answer. Instead, I just close my eyes and pray I’ll feel better when I wake up.

  Why is Meg screaming? I must be hallucinating now because I know Meg is in England. But she sounds too pissed off for me to be imagining it. I lift my head slightly as the answering machine beeps. How long have I been on the floor? I’ve got to get to the phone and call her back before she hops a plane back home.

  Okay, here goes. I prop myself up on the toilet, then rest my head on the lid. I know it’s disgusting, but I’m doing the best I can here. Next, I manage to get to my knees—halfway up. You can do this, Annalyse. It’s just standing and walking. Holding onto the wall, I get to my feet then close my eyes to try to stop the dizziness—just one little step at a time. I use the wall, the sink, the towel rack, anything I can find to help support me as I stumble along.

  I’m not sure how long it takes, but I make it to the doorway and lean there for a second to rest, unable to see clearly. Everything is spinning around, like I’m on the teacups at Disney World. My feet start to slip from under me.

  “Shit, Annalyse!” I hear Holt say right before everything falls black.

  Why is my head shaking? Who’s doing that? Opening my eyes slightly, I find Holt is the culprit. “Fuck,” he says.

  “I’m too sick to fuck,” I reply.

  “There she is,” he says, pulling me to his chest and kissing my forehead. “Christ, you’re burning up. Do you have a thermometer?” I just shrug. He props me up against the doorway and begins to frantically search the bathroom.

  “Not as neat as yours,” I say.

  “Found it.” He leans my head in his hand and runs it across my forehead to my temple. “Jesus Christ, 104.4. Does anything hurt?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Annalyse, baby. What are your symptoms? Cough, headache, pain?”

  “Everything hurts,” I say.

  He gets back up and searches again then hands me two pills and some water. “This should help with the fever.”

  Swallowing down the pills, I say, “Okay, you can go now.”

  He ignores me and pulls out his phone, rattling off a list of things and Meg’s address. Then he starts the tub water and hangs up with one last order. “Hurry!” He reaches for me again and tugs at my shirt. “Come on, baby. Let’s get you undressed.”

  “No,” I say, smacking his hand. “You don’t get to see me naked anymore.”

  “Belligerent little thing, aren’t you?”

  I point my finger in his face. “Asshole!”

  “I know,” he says. “But I’m trying to help you.”

  “You hurt me,” I say.

  “Too late to say sorry?” he asks.

  “You just want back in my bed!”

  He ignores me, again. “The lukewarm water will help with the fever and the aches . . .”

  “My heart hurts the worst,” I say.

  He exhales then scoops me up and lowers me to the tub. At least I still have my clothes on. Score a point for me. My shoulders start to shake and tears start down my face. I feel so terrible, and I don’t want him to be kind to me. Anybody but him.

  He wipes my face with his hand. “Shh! I’m going to take care of you, okay? I’ll make you feel better.” He slips off his shoes and crawls in the tub fully dressed and wraps me in his arms.

  “What about my heart?” I cry.

  “I’ll make that feel better, too.”

  Clinging to his wet shirt, I just cry. There’s nothing else to do. And he just holds me, tightly. Maybe it’s the sickness or maybe it’s something else, but my thoughts and feelings are all over the place. No man has taken care of me in years, and now it’s someone other than Logan. Still, it feels good to have Holt here, even though he hurt me. God, it’s too much to analyze right now. I’m unsure how long we lay there, my eyes closing several times as I dose off. But it must have been a long while because the water has gotten cold. “How’d you know I was sick?” I ask.

  “I didn’t,” he says. “Meg called me. Said you weren’t answering, and she was worried.” He puts his lips to my skin again. “You feel a little cooler already. Let’s get you dried off and into bed. Don’t want you to catch a chill.”

  He hops out first and sheds his wet clothes, tying a towel around his waist. Even in my sick state, I can appreciate how utterly yummy he is. He helps me up and strips my clothes off. And I don’t have the energy to argue with him this time. He helps me into fresh pajamas and tucks me into bed. “Where’s Patrick’s closet?” he asks. “I need to borrow some clothes.”

  “You can go home,” I say. “I’m just going to sleep.”

  “There’s not a chance in hell I’m leaving you,” he says, his voice with that familiar bossy tone. The doorbell rings. “It’s my nurse. Now where’s Patrick’s closet? Don’t want to answer the door like this.”

  “Down the hall, first door on the right.”

  “Just a second,” he yells at the front door before darting down the hall. I close my eyes for a second, knowing I’m going to be alright now. I’ve got a doctor taking care of me, even if I am still pissed at him.

  I hear him answer the door. “Did you bring everything?” Holt asks.

  “Yes, Dr. Miller,” I hear the familiar voice of his nurse say.

  I feel something stick in my ear and open up my eyes. Holt places his hand on my cheek, checking my temperature. “Shit, it’s still 104. Time for the emergency room, baby.”

  “No hospital,” I say.

  “We have to . . .”

  “I don’t take orders from you anymore.”

  “You never did,” he says, chuckling. “But your fever is too high.”

  “Please, Holt. Last time I was in a hospital was after Logan.”

  He exhales and looks up at the nurse. “Did you bring the flu swab kit?” She nods and hands him something that looks like an extra-long Q-tip. “Did you get the flu shot?” he asks me.

  “No. You think it’s the flu?”

  “Probably, now open up,” he says, gently rubbing the swab on the inside of my cheek then handing it back to the nurse. “Okay, let’s get her hooked up to IV fluids and started on the antiviral medicine.” He steps to the side, and the nurse comes over, taking things out of her bag and pulling over an IV stand the nurse brought.

  “I don’t like needles,” I say.

  “We’ve got to keep you hydrated. The fluids will help bring the fever down and help you feel better,” he says.

  The nurse begins to wipe my skin with an alcohol pad and hangs the fluids. Her huge, football hands flash into my mind. “Wait! Holt, I want you to do it.”

  He takes a seat on the bed beside me, my arm on his lap. “I haven’t started an IV since med school. Trust me, you don’t want me to do it.”

  “Ouch!” I cry, my body jerking slightly at the needle stick.

  “All done, sweetie,” the nurse says then tapes the IV to my arm.

  “Let me know as soon as you get the swab results back,” Holt tells her.

  “You’re not coming into the office?” the nurse asks.

  “No, please have Dr. Barbara cover for me today and tomorrow. I’ll be back on Monday.”

  “Go to work,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Someone needs to monitor your fever. If it doesn’t come down in the next hour or so, you will go to the emergency room.”

  Great, now we are back to orders. “Call Carla and Judy. They will . . .”

  “They are elderly. If they get the flu, it will be a lot worse on them,” he says then checks the bag the nurse brought, thanks her, and walks her out. Returning to the room, he hands me some pills and a glass of water. “When did your symptoms start?”

  “Yesterday,” I say.

  “You should’ve called me.”

  “Why?” I bite out. “We were just screwing, remember?”

  His teeth gnash together
. He’s really pissed, but in typical Holt fashion, he locks those emotions right up and puts them away, probably next to whatever is in his dresser drawer. Drawing a deep breath, he says, “Because the medicine for the flu works better the sooner you start to take it.”

  “You should just go,” I say, rolling on my side away from him. “You don’t want to catch it.”

  “I had my flu shot,” he says, pulling me back towards him.

  “Still, it’s better if . . .”

  “Annalyse, will you stop busting my balls long enough to take a nap. I said I’m sorry,” he says, throwing some more blankets on top of me, until I look like a burrito.

  “Saying you’re sorry doesn’t fix everything,” I say.

  “Then I’ll say it again and . . .”

  “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to . . .”

  “Open up,” he finishes my sentence, and I nod. “I know that, but can we start with you forgiving me?”

  Trying not to smile, I say, “A nap sounds good.”

  “I need you to get better.” He releases a deep breath and strokes my hair, leaning into my neck. The last words I hear before I drift off to sleep are him whispering, “Don’t give up on me.”

  *

  I wake up to water dripping down my face. Opening my eyes, I find Holt pressing a wet cloth to my forehead. “Hi,” I say, my voice coming out soft and weak.

  “How do you feel?”

  “So bad,” I whimper.

  He sits down beside me and turns the cloth over. The cool side feels amazing against my skin. “I know, but the fever is coming down. 102.5 now. And the results of the swab came back positive for the flu.”

  “Did you call Meg back?” I ask.

  “Yeah, promised her I wouldn’t leave your side, so you’re stuck with me,” he says. I move to sit up, and he holds his arms out protectively. “Hey, where do you think you’re going?”

  “Pee!” I snap. “Unless you want to stick a catheter in me.”

  “How long you going to stay mad at me?”

  “Let’s see. You didn’t speak to me for three days, so I think I should stay pissed at least that long.”

  “That’s fair,” he says.

  Apparently, there is a certain way you should get out of bed or at least they must do it this way in the hospital because Holt has a three-step process. First, he makes me roll to my side. Then I push myself up to sitting. Then after waiting for the room to stop spinning, I’m allowed to get to my feet, holding onto my IV stand for support. After all that, I don’t have the strength to punch him in the arm. I wouldn’t want to punch him in the face. He’s too damn cute for that—wouldn’t want to mess him up.

  I hate feeling weak. I absolutely fucking hate it! And right now, I can’t even use the bathroom without his help, leaning on him to make it the ten feet to the toilet. I stop in the doorway and close my eyes.

  “I could get someone to bring a bed pan . . .” he says.

  “No.”

  He smiles down at me and pulls my head to his chest. “Just rest here a minute.”

  The weight of my whole body rests against his. “I’m still mad at you.” The rumble in his chest from his laugh echoes in my ear. “Holt,” I whisper, looking up at him, my chin resting on his chest. “Thank you.”

  “I want to kiss you so bad right now.”

  “Not as bad as I want to pee.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ANNALYSE

  I don’t remember much from that first day. Basically I slept, woke up finding Holt standing watch, took medicine, then would fall back asleep. Insert the random bathroom visit and that was pretty much it until around midnight.

  Ever just wake up and know you are alone? I didn’t even need to open my eyes to know he was gone, and it didn’t take much for me to know where he’d gone—to do his nightly ritual with whatever is in that damn dresser drawer. Whatever is in that drawer has enough power to pull him away from me. And even though I don’t want it to, that scares me.

  The medicine must be working, because for the first time since this started, I’m a little hungry. I manage to get to my feet without assistance, but the walk to the kitchen might as well be a trek across the desert. Pushing my IV stand, I only make it about halfway before lowering myself to the sofa in the den. Maybe next time I wake up, I’ll make it the rest of the way.

  The back door opens quietly. “What’re you doing out of bed?” Holt asks, rushing to me and feeling my forehead.

  “I was hungry, and you were gone,” I say, putting every ounce of energy I have left into my bitchy tone.

  But he’s not fazed. Guess he’s used to a lot worse. Laboring women must scream and curse at him all the time. My little tone is nothing. “Well, I’m back. What can I get for you?” he asks.

  “I’m too tired to eat now.”

  “Okay, I’ll help you back to bed,” he says.

  “I’ll just stay here. It’s too far.” I say. “Please go to work tomorrow. I feel bad you’re missing because of me. I can call . . .”

  “That guy on the motorcycle?”

  “Who?”

  “The guy whose bike you were on the back of yesterday.”

  “That’s Grant. How did you . . .”

  “I came home for lunch,” he says. “Actually, I came home because I wanted to talk to you, but then you were with him.”

  The fact he came home on his lunch break to talk to me holds some weight, makes me feel like he actually cares and was upset about how things dissolved. “So you didn’t come talk to me because you were jealous?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “I know you, Annalyse. Whoever that guy is? I know I don’t need to be jealous.”

  “Then why not talk to me?”

  “Because I was pissed. I told you not to ride. I hate you taking risks, you know that. And there you are on the back of that bike. And you were barely holding onto that guy.”

  “That guy is Logan’s brother,” I say. “And I don’t know what you think you’re protecting me from because I was perfectly fine on that bike, but this damn flu has kicked my ass. You cannot protect me from everything, and I’m not even sure why you want to.”

  “I can try,” he says with resolve.

  “But why do you want to?”

  “Why can’t you do small talk?” he asks.

  The sleepiness takes over. I don’t have the energy for this, so I lean my head down on his shoulder and say, “I’ll do small talk the rest of the weekend if you answer a couple questions.”

  “How many?”

  “Well, three days of you being an asshole, so three questions.”

  “Fine, but you have to do what I tell you the next three days, too,” he says.

  “Sure, whatever.” I can’t believe he agreed. I’d follow his orders for the rest of my life just for the chance to pick his brain a little. Okay, maybe that’s an overstatement. “Why do you feel the need to protect me?”

  “It’s my job to take care of women,” he says.

  “That’s a shitty answer,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “So you treat every woman like this?”

  “Not exactly,” he says. “You’re wondering if you’re special?”

  “Am I?”

  He tilts my chin up. “Five years, Annalyse. No dating, no sex, no women. I’d say that makes you pretty special.”

  “Why no women?” I ask.

  “Your three questions are up.”

  I start to argue, but he simply repeats the questions I asked to remind me. It’s the drugs. I would have never fallen for that if it wasn’t for this damn flu, so I start my protest. “Those were follow-ups to your vague answer.”

  He just laughs and lowers my head to his lap. “Time to sleep.”

  “But . . .”

  His fingers move gently through my hair. “Rest.”

  I snuggle deeper into his lap and ask, “Bonus question?”

  “Then you sleep?”

  “Mmm, I promise.”

  “Al
right,” he says, releasing a deep breath.

  There are so many things I want to know. How does he feel about me? Does he feel anything? Why is he so damn neat and orderly? Why hasn’t he dated? Why does he need Ambien, but just on some nights? The list is endless—at the top of it is: what is in that drawer? I’m scared to ask. My heart is telling me it has something to do with a woman, and that shouldn’t bother me. I have stuff from Logan, and Holt isn’t threatened by that at all. But Holt’s secrecy somehow gives whatever it is more power.

  To hell with being scared. “The drawer,” I say, and his body immediately stiffens. “Tell me anything you’re willing to.” He doesn’t move or say a word.

  “I . . .” he looks away. “It’s part of my routine at night. I mean, it’s more than that. It’s not like brushing my teeth or . . .”

  His head shakes a little, and I sit up and hold his face in my hands. His eyes are like a sheet of gray ice in a harsh winter. One false step and the whole thing will shatter. And I can’t be responsible for that. He’s not ready to talk about this, and I’m the last person to force him to. It’s got to be on his time, on his terms. I know that better than anyone. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you for telling me.”

  His forehead lowers to mine. “But I didn’t answer . . .”

  “Anyone else know about that dresser, your routine?” I ask, and he shakes his head. “Then I’d say you just told me a lot.”

  *

  HOLT

  I knew I wanted Annalyse back from the second the door closed behind her. I just needed to find a way back in. I hate that she got sick, but it paved the way—because I knew a simple apology wasn’t going to do. I know Annalyse, and she’s not going to settle for the way things were. She wants more. She hasn’t said it exactly, but isn’t that what all women want—more? I’m not going to worry about it right now.

  Looking down at her head in my lap, I gently touch her cheek and forehead. She’s still burning up with fever. I remember my mom telling me that she could look at my brothers and me and see we were sick; she could smell it, even. Annalyse doesn’t smell sick, but she looks it, her face drawn, her hair dull. And it’s time for another dose of medicine, but I’m not going to wake her. Sleep is more important; besides, I’m enjoying having her snuggled on my lap.