After the fourth time, there’s finally movement from the other side of the door. The lock unlatches, and at an unhurried pace, the apartment door peels open.
“Hello?” the redheaded, sleeping zombie on the other side of the threshold croaks.
She’s in an oversized sweatshirt and pink fuzzy socks. A stain stretches across the pocket. Half, more like a third, of her curls are in a bun lopsided on the left side of her head. The remainder of her hair is either matted to her forehead or sticking out in unconventional ways.
“What are you doing here?” Sutton bites out, displeased and confused.
“We’re supposed to be meeting.”
“That’s not till tomorrow.”
“Dave, it is tomorrow. It’s almost five.”
Sutton looks appalled. Horrified expression to match her horror movie appearance. “Oh my god. I slept for twenty hours. I missed everything today.” She turns around, walking gingerly into her apartment, leaving me in the doorway.
I trail behind her, taking the open door as an invitation to come in.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Obviously not.” Good to know that even sick, appearing to be on her deathbed, and having had twenty hours of sleep, she’s still partially herself. “People should rethink the phrase there are no dumb questions.”
Sutton opens the cabinet with their cups, grabbing a glass. All her movements are sluggish. In front of the sink, she wobbles. Sets the glass down, one hand curled tightly around it, the other bracing the counter for support with a lethargic shake of her head.
My feet cover the distance in four large steps. I stretch my hand flat across her lower back to steady her.
“Here. Let me.” I take the glass from her, filling it with water. “You should sit. Can you walk to the couch?”
“Yes, Cooper,” she deadpans, but I see the fight in her eyes. The lowering of her resolve when she tries to take a step and immediately uses the counter again as a crutch. Hazel eyes that lean more green today, fissures of amber crackling through them, tip up to the ceiling, then straight forward. On me, but not exactly. Sutton stares at the wall behind me and, on an exasperated inhale, says, “No.”
I stifle a smile. Have to restrain myself from pulling out my phone and documenting the moment. It might not have been her explicitly asking for my help, but between the two letters, I know she is.
I debate carrying her bridal style, but I don’t want to push my luck. Fireman style is absolutely out of the discussion.
“Come on.” I lift an arm over my shoulder, let her weight lean into me. I brace an arm around her waist.
Depositing her on the couch, she lets me prop her up. Back against one side, legs out in front of her, and tucked into a blanket. I hand her the glass of water and encourage her to finish the entire thing, even when she gags after the first sip.
Her skin is dull, cheeks incandescent, the color of her hair. Even with how much sleep she’s gotten, there are dark circles under her eyes. Sutton breathes lightly.
Kneeling beside her, I press the back of my hand to her forehead. She’s feverish.
“Do you have a thermometer? I think you have a fever.”
She nods. “Bathroom closet.” I stand up and start heading down the hallway. “Can you get me some more water?”
A few minutes later, I’m back. She sips on the water, placing it down for me to take her temperature.
“Open,” I say, kneeling beside her with the thermometer hovering by her mouth. Sutton doesn’t fight me, opens her mouth, lifting her tongue. “Good girl.”
I place it under her tongue, and she closes her mouth.
Cheeks pink as she tracks my every move.
We wait for the thermometer to buzz. The seconds pass by achingly slow. It’s not like we are waiting on big test results or anything life or death, but the air seems to grow thicker, the walls closing in on us.
When she breathes, I find myself breathing with her.
And maybe it’s because I’ve thought about this. Taking care of her. Growing old with her. All of the sickness and in health stuff you hear about in wedding vows.
