Go figure. The first man to make me feel like there are still men out there who can make you feel like their whole world, and he’s faking it.
But it feels so real.
I shake my head and get on my bike, pedaling home. It makes no sense to sit around and think of the what ifs. Simon and I need to figure this out.
If I get there now, we’ll have plenty of time to do just that whether he likes it or not. Besides, I know why we’re faking it for the football moms, but what about his family? Why fake it for them? I have too many questions I should have asked over the weekend. But whenever I’m alone with Simon, it’s like my brain short-circuits.
Don’t even get me started on how I’m supposed to take dating advice from him later. At this point, even if he’s some long-lost twin of Simon’s who talks and acts just like him, I don’t want him.
I head toward our houses and as soon as a trickle of sweat starts to form between my breasts from the ninety-degree July heat, I pedal faster. This would be a great time to drive my new car and turn the AC on, but fresh air has always been a way for me to calm my mind, plus, I like riding my bike. I swear it’s a form of therapy. I could never live somewhere that couldn’t make this possible.
I round the final corner, a smile on my face because Simon sitting outside writing is a sight to see. It’s like this secret thing we have in common. Using the air as motivation to do what we love.
But today I don’t see him.
I slow in front of his house and stare at his writing spot.
When has Simon not been out here when I get home?
Something is off.
I hop off my bike, letting it drop to the ground instead of taking the time to put the kickstand up, and jog up the steps. The front door is unlocked.
All the lights inside are turned off.
Not super unusual for the middle of the day, since the sun shining through the windows lights up the room, but still, I can just feel something is wrong. I don’t hear Grey’s TV or anyone in the kitchen or even music downstairs where Simon could be working or working out. I tiptoe into the kitchen and glance at the coffeepot.
It’s still clean. There’s always at least once cup left by the time I get here.
I spin quickly and run up the stairs. I stop at Grey’s room first. He isn’t there, but all his sheets have been stripped off his bed. Slowly, I move to Simon’s room. The door is cracked, but immediately, I see both him and Grey in bed.
I push the door open, and my eyes fall to the medicine on the nightstand and the thermometer next to it.
Oh, Grey must be sick.
I touch a hand to my heart as I slowly back up. Simons clearly doesn’t need…
Simon groans and rolls over, the very obvious sweat running off his forehead tells me all I need to know.
They’rebothsick.
I walk back into the room and put a hand to Simon’s forehead. He’s hot. I don’t need to take his temperature to know that he’s running a fever.
I do the same to Grey—he’s even hotter.
My mind instantly goes into list mode of what I need. Water, check their temps so I can track when they start to go down, get more medicine, start some soup, get them clean sheets, grab my heating pad, and —
Grey bolts up, leaning over the edge of the bed and throwing up. I run to do who knows what for him, and then I see the trash can by the bed.
“Grey,” Simon says with a hoarse voice. “Let me get you some more crackers.”
He starts to move, but I put a hand on his ankle.
“Don’t move. I’ll get it.”
“Greer?” Simon says, then groans and falls back onto the pillow. “You should go. You don’t want this.”
“Maybe not.” I head for the door. “But I’m here, and I’m not leaving. Don’t either of you move until I get back.”
