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He shrugs. “I kind of think it’s a deal that you accept the other person and their flaws for a few months. You certainly accepted my smoking, and I know you hate it.”
“I do.”
“You’re sick, Savannah. I’m going to take care of you the best I can.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask, turning to look at my curtains. I don’t know what time of day it is unless I look out the window. The lack of sun confuses me, and I blink, trying to make sense of the little light coming through my curtains. Dawn? Dusk?
“It’s mid-morning,” he says. “Just a gloomy day. They say snow’s coming. The long-range forecast says snow off and on for the next couple of weeks.”
“Fantastic.”
“I called in sick.”
“You’ve been exposed to this. You may need your own sick days soon.”
“Nah,” he waves me off. “I got my flu shot.”
“Rub it in. I thought big, strong men didn’t get their flu shots.”
He looks at my wall for a moment and chews the inside of his cheek. “I was in foster care when I was about twelve. The family sucked, but one of my foster parents had a mom that was nice to me. She was probably the closest thing I had to a grandmother as I bounced around. Anyway, she died the second year I was at the house. She had the flu. At that point, I didn’t even know people could die of it.” He pauses and looks back at me, smiling. “I may not be current on all vaccines, but I’m vigilant about two of them. Flu and tetanus.”
“Why tetanus?” I ask, feeling better as I listen to Wilder talk. Something about the conversation with him takes my mind off how miserable I am, even if the story of his foster grandmother doesn’t comfort me in my current state.
“I camp a lot. It’s important to be up on your tetanus shots if you wander around the wilderness. It’s all fun and games until someone gets lockjaw.”
I smile as much as I can muster.
He pulls the blanket back from my body, and I shiver with the cold. “What are you doing?”
“You haven’t showered in days.”
“I can’t walk to it. Just let me be.”
He covers me back up and tucks me in. “I’ll be right back.”
Now what? He’s being too kind, and he doesn’t have to be. It’s nice to be taken care of and doted on by someone other than my mother. Not that Heather would be that attentive. If I called and told her I had the flu, she’d come check on me once a day and bring me a burger and fries or chicken nuggets, only to throw a cold washcloth at me, wave, and promise to check on me the next day.
It’s hard being the child and the grownup in the house at the same time. The more Wilder takes care of me today, the more I realize how much I took care of my mother instead of the other way around. Maybe that’s why I’m so awkward around people my own age and act like I’m forty. I’ve been acting like I’m forty my entire life because someone had to act forty in my house.
I doze off to the sound of water filling the bathtub. I know he’s running the bath for me, but I just don’t know how I’m going to get there. The world slips away, and I move to the hazy place between awake and asleep as strong arms lift me from the bed.
I’m so limp and weak, I don’t fight him as he carries me down the hall to the bathroom, kicking the door closed behind us to keep the steam in the room.
He lays me on the floor and undresses me, pulling my underwear down and not remarking on the fact that I’ve worn the same pair for two or three days. I don’t recognize time and can’t remember when I last changed them. They’re nasty, probably streaked from not having the strength to wipe well, and I’m embarrassed. Thank fuck I’m not having my period. I’d die if he had to take care of that for me.
I know he would, though. Something tells me he’d take care of me no matter how gross I am. If anyone saw us right now, they wouldn’t believe we were a fake relationship and doing this for convenience.
His gentle hands unclasp my bra, and I want to stay on the floor forever. I could slip off to sleep here and never wake up. I grip the cool tile under me as I revel in the warm air from the steam. “I put some bath salts in the tub, Savannah. That’ll help the body aches. Do you want me to wash you?”
My eyes slip closed, and I nod. “Do you mind? I’m so sorry, Wilder. This is so fucking embarrassing.”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, lifting me again. This time I’m naked, and I curl into him for as long as it takes for him to walk me to the tub and gently place me into the warm water.
He got the water perfect. Not too hot for someone with a fever, but warm enough for someone with chills. I lie back and close my eyes as he cleans my body, running a washcloth over my foul armpits, under my breasts, over my feet, and between my legs. He makes sure every inch of me is clean, even lifting me against his shoulders as he washes my back.
A tear threatens to trickle out of my eye. This will all be over in exactly one month. This man that’s washing my sour body while I’m sick will walk out of my life that day. Who will take care of me then?
Hell, who’s been taking care of me all this time? The very thought of going back to fending for myself in life exhausts me, and I tremble with either flu chills or mild fear that I’ll never find another partner to care for me like this. Are there more men out there like him that I can find when I’m ready and can be more settled?
