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“I’m not leaving you,” I say.
“This is gross,” she says between heaves. “You don’t want to see this.”
“Do you think I care?” I step into the bathroom and find her slumped over the toilet. I carefully kneel down and hold her hair back. Her skin is so hot. When she’s retched up everything in her stomach, I help her to her feet and she sags against me as I squirt some toothpaste on her toothbrush and hand it to her. She brushes and spits and I rinse the brush and put it back in the holder.
“Oh,” she moans, holding her head. “Oh, I feel awful.”
“Let’s get you into bed,” I say. I pick her up in my arms again, getting no protest this time. Her limbs are weak and she folds into a fetal position as I place her on her bed. I see a T-shirt and a pair of cotton sleep pants hanging out of one drawer of her dresser and grab them.
“Here,” I say, placing them next to her. “I’m going to get you some medicine.”
I leave her in privacy and glance around her apartment which is remarkably unchanged since the last time I was here. The same squashy couch against one wall, the little table by the window. The tiny fridge. The Japanese screens that hide her bed. I search through her cabinets and find a glass and fill it with water. I head back to the bathroom and check her medicine cabinet, grabbing a bottle of Tylenol and tipping two pills into my palm.
When I come back behind the screen, Isla is in the tee and pants, curled up on her side, her hair splayed across the pillow. A light sheen of sweat dews over her skin.
“Here,” I say, sitting beside her and gently helping her into enough of a sitting position to swallow the pills. “Drink a little bit more,” I suggest, surprised and pleased when she listens to me. Then she sags back against the pillows.
“Okay. I’m in bed. You can go now.” Her words are faintly slurred, her eyes unfocused.
“Not a chance,” I say. “Where’s your phone?”
She frowns at me, her nose wrinkling. “Why d’you want my phone?”
“I was going to text Luke,” I say. “He should know you’re not well.”
Her eyes narrow into little slits. “That’s suspiciously nice of you.”
A faint chuckle escapes my throat. “That’s me. Mr. Suspiciously Nice.”
Her phone is beneath a fold of the comforter, and it takes her a few tries to unlock it.
“You’re not texting my fiancé,” she says, as I take the phone from her. “I can…” Her voice trails off.
“You need to rest. I’m just going to tell him you’re sick and he should come home,” I say.
“No,” Isla moans. “Don’t wanna interrupt…he’s at a bachelor…”
“Isla, you’ve got a fever, you’re throwing up, and you’re lightheaded,” I say. “I’m sure Luke will want to be here with you. Who cares about some dumb bachelor party?”
I find Luke’s text thread and try to ignore the sting at their previous exchange:
Have fun at the party!
Thanks babe! Love you.
Isla’s eyes have slipped closed, her breathing slow and even. I ponder what exactly to say. This is weird. I don’t want to be texting Luke Richards.
But I care about Isla more than I dislike him.
Hi Luke, this is Caden Everton. Isla got really sick at the beach and I took her home. Thought you should know.
That last line seems a little harsh so I delete it.
She’s resting now but she might need to see a doctor.
I press my hand to her forehead and she moans. Her skin is on fire. That plus the vomiting, plus the fainting… What if she’s got pneumonia? Or RSV? Or some even worse virus?
I hit send, expecting to hear back from Luke quickly. Several minutes pass with no response. Maybe he’s partying too hard to look at his phone.