It’s not nothing.
Especially not with him smiling like that.
Oh, stop.His default is happy. He probably smiles during slasher movies.
Or maybe he’s happy to be here with you.
Yeah right.
The second I got in Jake’s Lamborghini on Saturday night after the hockey game, I sniffed, and he made a disgusted face.
“You’re sick! You let me kiss you all night, and you’re sick!”
“I didn’tletyou kiss me, bozo. You did it all yourself. You couldn’t wait to show up on the freaking kiss cam.”
“That did look pretty good,” he said with a smirk that made me want to gag. “But if I’d realized how sick you were, I’d have let Fischer kiss you, instead. He was staring at you all night.”
I hated the way he threw that in my face, hated thinking Lucas was watching us. “Maybe he’s starstruck. You’re Jake Rodgers and he’s a minor league player, after all.”
“Maybe,” he said, turning his face toward his cracked window. “Either way, no more kissing until you’re better.”
“Gee. Shucks,” I said, looking out the window at the dark streets. “Did you at least get the Old Spice deal your agent emailed me about?”
“Signed the contract this morning.”
“Good. Maybe we can break up before Spring Training then.”
“Nah, Agent wants this happening through March.”
“March? We already agreed that it would be the start of Spring Training, Jake.”
“It’s an extra week.”
“Five weeks,” I corrected, laughing bitterly. “We’ll be married with kids if it’s up to him.”
Jake chuckled. “Good point.” Then he ruffled my hair, the way he used to when we were kids and I pretended it didn’t bug me. “Don’t worry. Beginning of March will be fine.”
He didn’t so much as give me a chance to disagree. “Right. If you can make good choices like a big boy.”
“Maybe not, then,” he said, and we both chuckled, but it didn’t erase the mounting sickness I felt inside, both physically and emotionally.
When Jake texted the next morning about filming B-roll, I told him I was too sick and made him swear not to come over. He sent a thumbs-up. That was that.
That was yesterday. I’ve been out of commission for thirty-six hours, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m not out of the woods yet. I feel like trash. Achy, sensitive to the touch, cold then hot then cold again. I’m sure I look—and smell—like death. But if Lucas weren’t here making me sip electrolytes and alternate acetaminophen and ibuprofen every two hours, I’d be a lot worse off.
I didn’t take a single pill yesterday. I just lay in bed moaning and shaking and wishing for sleep.
It’s depressing to think about. Worse to admit.
Why didn’t I even take pain medicine?
Was I simply too tired? Too out of it? Why did it take Lucas showing up for me to finally take something?
That’s … not great.
I frown at the thought, not sure I want to look at it too closely.
A text comes in from my mom.
