Page 121 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

“I love them,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. A friend made them for me.”

Before we ate, Peter took the pillows and placed one at each end of the sofa. One made of black wool and the other made of puffy polyester that looked like a blue cloud that had once smelled of sugar.

We didn’t clean up the destruction in the living room. Peter and I hid away in the den for the rest of the day, eating, drinking, feeding the fire, and enjoyed watching the snow fall outside as we stayed wrapped in each other’s arms.

It was the perfect Christmas.

Something was wrong. It was the night after Christmas and Peter and I had crawled into bed at our typical bedtime and fallen asleep, snuggling, with his head on my chest. When my eyes popped open, I was uncertain what time it was, but Peter was no longer snuggled up next to me. His head wasn’t on my chest. I reached over, searching for him in the dark, but my arm found nothing except empty space on the mattress. Fumbling in the dark, I grabbed my cellphone from the bedside table and checked the time.

Ten minutes after midnight.

As I lowered my cellphone, the human figure at the foot of the bed caught in the glow cast by my cellphone screen startled me. When I realized the shape was Peter, sitting on the bench, I chuckled and slowly sat up in bed. I set my phone on the bedside table and stared at Peter’s back as he sat there.

“Couldn’t sleep?” I asked softly.

“No,” he said.

“Do you need some help getting sleepy?” I asked, suggestively.

I thought Peter would chuckle. Maybe even take me up on the offer. We’d had sex before bed, but I was not opposed to revisiting the activity if it would help him sleep. Even if it didn’t help him sleep. Sex doesn’t have to have any purpose other than to have sex.

I slid down the bed so that I was behind him and placed my hands on his shoulders, then leaned forward to kiss his neck. Peter chuckled, sounding hoarse, but gave no indication that he was interested in actual sex.

Something definitely had to be wrong.

“Are you upset about something?” I whispered.

“No,” he said. “I just…I was having trouble sleeping.”

I rubbed his shoulders gently in the dark.

“Do you need to talk about something?” I asked. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“No…no,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Are you certain?”

When Peter tensed up, bending slightly at his waist, I froze. His arms went to his middle and he leaned forward, as though experiencing a cramp. A smile came to my face and I rubbed his back gently.

“Too much dinner?” I asked, chuckling.

Peter tried to laugh with me, but he cringed again. When I noticed how warm Peter’s back felt, I scooted closer so that my legs were practically wrapped around him, and my hand went to the back of his neck. Then his forehead. He clenched up again.

“You’re running a fever,” I said. “Peter, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Peter said, trying to sound fine, but not quite managing.

There was a twinge to his voice, the sound of someone not wanting to let on that they are in pain.

“Is it your stomach?” I asked as I pulled myself from around him and climbed off of the bed.

Coming around to stand in front of him, I knelt down in the dark, trying to catch his eye. Peter’s arms were still laid over his stomach, his face was twisted up in pain, his teeth clenched together as his whole body stayed rigid.

“Maybe it’s just gas pains?” Peter managed before his whole body jerked as another pain shot through him.

I felt his forehead again. Peter was beginning to sweat.