Paisley
Two weeks later, it starts with a cough.
Just a small one, the kind that's just a tickle in your throat. It's annoying, but you don't think much of it. Chase is standing at the stove making breakfast, and he coughs into his elbow.
"You okay?" I ask from the table. In the months I've been out here with him, he's never coughed.
"Fine. Just swallowed wrong."
But then he coughs again. And he keeps doing it throughout the day.
By evening, I'm watching him more closely. "Chase, you sure you're alright?"
"I'm fine, Paisley. Stop worrying." He's at the coffee table, entering more information into his spreadsheets. "It's just the weather, and it's dry as fuck in this cabin with us always having the fire going."
I'm concerned, because his color is slightly off, and his eyes are glassy in the shadows of the fire. "Maybe you should rest," I suggest.
"I'm fine."
Men. Stubborn, infuriating men who think admitting they're sick is some kind of weakness.
Over the next few days, the cough gets worse. I can hear it rattling in his chest, deep and sounding as if it hurts. He tries to hide it, tries to act like everything's normal, but I see the way he winces when he takes a deep breath.
"Chase," I try again.
"Don't start." His voice is rough and hard. He sounds tired, and I hate that he's feeling that way.
Blowing out a frustrated breath, I keep going. "You need to rest."
"I need feed and check on Blackjack."
"Blacjack can wait."
"He can't, actually." He pulls on his coat, and I want to scream. "I'll be back soon."
He leaves before I can argue with him anymore, and I'm left pacing the cabin, worried. Biscuit follows me, meowing like she's worried too.
"Your dad is an idiot," I tell her.
She meows in agreement.
When Chase comes back, his face is flushed and there's a glassiness to his eyes. This time it's worse and it makes my stomach drop. He's sick. Really sick.
"I'm going to bed," he mutters.
"Yeah, you are." The words come out clipped. I'm mad at him because he's not taking this seriously.
That night, I sleep fitfully, waking every time he shifts or coughs. Around three in the morning, I'm jolted awake by him yelling.
"Cara Leigh!"
I sit up, my heart pounding, stomach dropping as I watch what's happening. He's thrashing in the bed, still asleep but clearly in the grip of what appears to be a nightmare.
"Chase, wake up." I try to shake him.
"Why did you do it?" His voice is anguished, broken. "Why wasn't I enough? You ruined my life. You ruined everything."
My chest tightens. Cara Leigh. Could this be his wife? The one he never talks about.
