She shakes her head with a small smile on her face. "How do you feel?"
"Like shit," I admit. "What happened?"
She stands, stretching, and I hear her back crack. "You've been burning up with fever for a week. You'd wake up sometimes, but you were pretty out of it."
A week? I don't think I've ever been that sick before. "Jesus."
"Yeah." She pours me a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand and hands it to me. "Drink this."
I do, grateful. The water feels good on my throat. "Did you take care of me this whole time?"
"Someone had to." She sits back down in the chair, and I can see how exhausted she is. "You were really sick, Chase. I was worried."
The fact that she was worried, that she stayed by my side, causes my chest to tighten. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did." Her voice is firm, and full of feelings I don't want to listen to, too closely. "You took care of me when I needed it. I wasn't about to leave you to suffer alone."
I realize, looking around the room, just how much she did. The clean sheets, the empty bowls that held God knows how many servings of soup or broth that she forced into my throat. The wet cloths that she must've used to cool my fever.
"Blackjack?" I ask, sitting up in a sudden panic.
"Fed and watered. I figured out how to take care of him." A small smile crosses her face. "He's very patient with beginners."
"You took care of my horse?" The words come out rougher than I intended, heavy with emotion. I don't know of anyone else who has ever done that for me.
She grins, and reaches out, taking my hand. "Of course I did. And Biscuit helped me take care of you."
As if summoned by her name, the cat jumps up on the bed and headbutts my free hand. I scratch behind her ears absently, my mind still trying to process everything.
Paisley took care of me. For a week. She didn't leave, didn't give up, didn't decide it was too much trouble. She did what she had to do. Most of all, she stayed.
"You mean a lot to me," she says softly.
"You mean a lot to me too." The words are inadequate for what I'm feeling, but they're all I have right now.
Then she asks it. The question I've been dreading, since she moved in. "Who's Cara Leigh?"
My whole body tenses. I haven't heard her name in so long that it sounds foreign. I don't want to talk about this. Don't want to go back to that dark place.
"Someone from my past."
"Chase..." There's a plea in her voice.
"Thank you for taking care of me." I try to change the subject, try to end this conversation before it goes somewhere I'm not ready for.
But Paisley doesn't let it go. "You called out her name. Multiple times. You said she ruined your life, that you can't love anyone else because of what she did."
Fuck. I said that out loud?
The pain in Paisley's eyes cuts me deeper than any knife could. She heard me, and now she thinks... what? That I don't care about her? That there's no room for her in my life?
"I was out of my head," I tell her.
"Were you?"
The question hangs in the air between us. And I don't have an answer. Not one she wants to hear, anyway.
"Okay," she finally says. "If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine. But I'm here when you're ready."
