Luke
That was beautiful, man.
Seriously, tear in my eye.
Damn. Beau’s right—at least, about my side of things. I think part of me always knew that if I made a move on Pippa, it would be for keeps. You don’t go all in like that unless you know you’re playing that hand till the end.
If only Pippa felt the same way.
Ryan
Well, I’m still dumped. So Beau can return whatever Hallmark card he got that from.
Beau
Oh yeah, they have a section for Stepsisters/Girlfriends now.
I chuckle, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. It makes me check the time. It’s past noon, and Pippa still hasn’t left her room.
Fuck it. I’m supposed to give her space, but I need to know she’s still breathing. Taking a breath, I shoot her a text.
Ryan
Let me know if you’re okay. I promise I won’t reply.
There. If she doesn’t respond in fifteen minutes, then I’ll go knock on her door.
I pace up and down the hall a little, trying to get some energy out. For the first few laps, Waffle follows me, assuming I’m playing some kind of game, but she quickly gets tired and curls up on the couch, waiting.
I make it a whole seven minutes before I just can’t help myself. I get to Pippa’s door and knock gently. “You okay in there, Pips?”
For a second, I don’t hear anything. Then, there’s a faint moan.
Fuck it. I shove the door open, only to find Pippa curled up in a little ball, wrapped in her purple blanket. Her face is flushed and she’s shivering so hard, I can see it from the door.
“Jesus, Pippa!” I’m at her side in a second, putting my hand against her forehead. She’s burning up. “You’re sick.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Uh, yes, you are. You’ve got an insane fever, and you look like Anne Hathaway when she died inLes Mis.”
“No, I have work,” she rambles. “I’ve got to write. And pack. Write and pack. Too much to do. I’m moving.”
She pulls off the covers and tries to get out of bed. Her legs go out from under her, and I catch her, quickly pushing her back to the mattress. It’s a sign of how sick she is that she doesn’t even pull away from my touch.
“You’re not doing anything until we get this fever down. Get back in bed.”
She moans in response, but at least she doesn’t try to walk again. I head to her bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. Hopefully, she picked up some liquid Tylenol, because she’s the only adult in the world who’s convinced that the syrupy stuff works better.
Fortunately, Pippa thought ahead, and there’s a red bottle waiting for me. I pour her out a dose and head back to her bed.
“Drink this,” I order, shoving it into her hand.
She shakes her head. “I don’t wanna.”
“Come on. It’ll make you feel better.”
“Nooooo,” she says dramatically.
