“I do,” I say. “I helped her move last week.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Can you go check on her? She probably has a hidden key in the potted plant she keeps by the front entrance.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I get there.”
“Thank you,” she says breathlessly. “I’m so glad you called.”
“Me, too.” I hang up and look at Grace. “Cancel my classes for today. And Claire’s, too. I’m going to check on her.”
“Let me know what happens.” She turns to the computer and starts canceling classes. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Me, too.” I wave goodbye and rush out the door.
Twenty minutes later, I’m knocking on Claire’s front door. I don’t want to assume anything bad has happened yet, and I don’t want to come barging in with the spare key if she’s able to open the door herself. But after a minute of waiting, knocking, and waiting again, I dig in her little plant for the key. Bingo. I insert it into the lock and open the door cautiously. “Claire?”
I don’t hear anything. The apartment is disheveled, but it looks more like the work of someone who was in the middle of unpacking rather than a burglar. I find the fireplace poker and hold it like a baseball bat, just in case someone comes for me.
“Claire?” I say, louder this time, and I hear a low moan from the bedroom. My muscles tense in anticipation. I rush in there and find Claire in her bed.
She looks AWFUL. I’m in love with her, so I’m allowed to say that. She’s sweaty and pale, but she’s shivering and her eyes are pinched shut. She looks otherwise unharmed, though.
I kneel next to her bed and place a hand on her shoulder. “Claire? Are you all right?”
“Ryan?” Her voice comes out scratchy. She opens her bleary eyes. “What are you doing here?”
I smooth the hair away from her face, noting how hot her skin is. “You didn’t show up at work this morning, and I got really worried. We were all worried.”
“We?” she repeats.
“Grace, me—even Betsy. And then I called your mom?—”
“You called my mom?”
“Yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll let her know you’re safe. But you’re burning up. What’s wrong? Are you in pain?”
“Shawna’s little boy. Transformers. Coloring. Huge sneeze in my face.” Her eyelids flutter shut. “So tired.”
The pieces fit together. She must have visited Shawna on Friday and caught something from her son.
I want to let her sleep, but I need more information to help her and decide if we need to go to the hospital. “Claire?” I ask gently, hoping she’s not already asleep. “Have you caught the flu yet this year?” This year’s flu has been notoriously aggressive, with scary high fevers, extreme fatigue, and congestion that lasts for weeks.
She shakes her head the tiniest bit. I exhale, slightly relieved only because I already caught the flu over winter break and should be immune. Unfortunately, I also know all too well how absolutely wrecked I was, so I can empathize.
I look around her bare room for any sign of water or tea. “Where’s your water bottle?”
“Can’t find it,” she moans. “Maybe in my car. Took some NyQuil, though.”
Oh, no. She’s probably severely dehydrated, too. If she doesn’t get fluids soon, I’ll have to take her to the ER. “I’ll be right back.”
I sprint to my car, grab my trusty water bottle, and bring it inside, then I fill it with water from her fridge. I rush back to her room and hold the straw close to her mouth. “Here, Claire. Take a drink.”
She opens her mouth and fumbles around looking for the straw. When she finds it, she closes her lips and takes a long, slow sip.
If I weren’t so worried about her, I’d be a little giddy that her lips are on the straw where my lips have been. Middle school Ryan would’ve been thrilled and considered it an almost-kiss.
Who am I kidding? I still feel a twinge of that.
But my main emotion is worry for Claire. After she finishes drinking, she slumps back onto her pillow.
