My phone blasted again, my annoyance at him reaching a high. I snapped at him as I answered. “What, Aaron?”
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m just not feeling well, okay? I’m staying home.” My voice shook a little bit, and I hoped I didn’t give anything away. “Look, we’ll talk later.”
“Greta, did you talk to Tanner?”
“No. I didn’t. I’m sick. I’ll text you tomorrow. Bye.”
I hung up, another wave of emotion flowing through me. “Cal, what did I do? I didn’t mean to fall in love with someone unable to love someone else.”
“Fuck.” She ran her hand through her long hair, her teeth going to town on her lip. “I think you need to sleep it off. Maybe a small break from him will be good, yeah? Four, five days without him around every second. That’ll help.”
“Yeah.” I wiped the mascara from my eyes. “I think I’m going to lie in bed and mope. Maybe put on an old movie.”
“Are you sure? I can lie with you.”
God, I loved Callie. I shook her off. “No, go do your stuff.”
“I want to punch his perfect teeth.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong. That’s what sucks. He told me all this beforehand, made me promise this wouldn’t happen. This isn’t his problem. This is all mine. So, I have to learn how to deal with it.”
“You’re being so rational about it.”
“I don’t have a choice right now.”
I went to my room and sulked for a good half an hour. I should’ve known better. I really should’ve. But it had to be a good dose of karma for my rash decisions. Because why else would I give my heart to anallergic to feelingsguy?
I was in a pretty deep pity party when a loud, obnoxious banging on the door made me jump about four feet in the air. It repeated, and Callie’s soft footsteps padded to the door. I listened through my door, already knowing who it was.
“Aaron, hey. Uh, she’s not feeling well.”
“Yeah, I brought her stuff.” Aaron’s strangled voice carried to my heart, squeezing it. “Let me in, Callie.”
I knew Callie stood no chance when he usedthattone. Seconds later, my door opened and Aaron’s gaze shot straight to my face. Unnamed emotions flitted across it before he sat on the edge of my bed. “Hey. I brought you some stuff.”
“I heard. I told you”—I avoided his assessing gaze—“I would text you tomorrow.”
“G, in the almost three years I’ve known you, you’ve never been sick. I figured this was big. So”—he grinned, the smile so pure it hurt to look at—“I brought you soup, crackers, soda and the entire first season ofThe Sopranos.”
I smiled, despite my inner turmoil. “This is a lot.”
“I wasn’t sure what you had. I figured soup and crackers make anyone feel better. The soda helps with nausea and, well,The Sopranoswas for me.”
He reached out and squeezed my foot over the comforter. His warmth traveled all the way up my body, the need to have him touch me overtaking everything else. “Here, what would you like first?”
I swallowed, hard. It hurt the back of my throat. The emotion trying to escape, the battle between head and heart, and the combination of his earnest, sincere face had my head spinning. “Soda.”
“Coming right up.” He left, returning seconds later with a glass of ice, and I observed him as he poured it. He set it on my nightstand and lifted the covers I had over me. “Scoot. I’m joining you.”
“Aaron.” My throat still sounded raspy from crying. “I don’t want you to get anything. You can go home.”
“Not a chance, Greta.” He used his sheer strength to push me over, but not roughly enough to hurt. He lifted me up without much effort and set me between his legs so my back hit his chest.
“Wh-what are you doing?” My heart hammered. Hehadto hear it.
“Relax.” His arms enveloped me, his hands coming up to my neck. He began massaging it, right below my ears, and I turned to putty. Straight putty in his arms. “There we go. I can feel you loosening up. I’m here because I want to be with you. I won’t get sick. I take too many vitamins.”
