Page 49 of Wish Upon A Star

Eventually, boredom overcomes the pain, which is duller, now, less sharp, and more of a slow, deep, dull ache than the lances of raw agony that it was at the beginning.

I open my eyes and move to something akin to sitting up—reclining, sort of. He’s got AirPods in and his phone held landscape in one hand, watching something. When he sees that I’m awake, he pauses what he’s watching and removes the earbuds.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey.” The phone goes off, and he slides the AirPods back into their case. “Feeling any better?”

I nod. “A bit, yeah.”

“Good, that’s something at least.”

I hear his stomach growling. I frown at him. “You haven’t eaten anything, have you?”

He shrugs. “I’m okay.”

“Wes, come on.”

He sighs. “I didn’t want to leave, and if you’re not feeling well enough to eat, it seems rude for me to.”

I shake my head and roll my eyes. “I get how you would think that, and I really appreciate that you’re thinking of me that way. But you need to take care of yourself. You need to sleep, and eat, and do work stuff. I can’t be your whole life, when I’m sick, and you can’t get so focused on me that you’re neglecting yourself.” I take his hand. “Caring for an invalid one-oh-one, Wes: you have to be well enough to care for your patient. If you’re sick, you’re not the caretaker anymore; you become the patient.” I squeeze his hand. “Now, order a pizza or something.”

He sighs. “Options are kind of limited, so I guess I will.”

I laugh. “You sound resigned.”

“I’ve been dancing hours a day every day for months now, so when it’s time to start learning the choreography, I’ll be a decent dancer and not just a newbie. And let me tell you, dance is a hell of a taxing sport, so my nutrition has had to be spot on.” He laughs. “Meaning, I don’t really eat pizza, normally. It’s not exactly good fuel for an athlete.”

“I guess I can appreciate that.”

“But like I said, options are limited, so pizza it is.” He pulls out his phone and locates a place that delivers, calls in an order. When they ask for a name, he hesitates.

I get his attention and point to myself.

“Jo,” he says, finally.

Order placed, there’s an awkward moment of silence.

“So, um. I…” I sigh, hating this part. “I need some help.”

He tosses his phone onto the bed. “Anything.”

“It’s going to be weird and awkward. But I need you to help me to the bathroom.”

I never dressed after last night, so I’m still naked except for my underwear. I’ve been covered by the blankets thus far, having been too weak to move much more than rolling from one side to the other. Now, however, I have to leave the bed and traverse the room. Weak, shaky, nauseous…and basically naked. Now that the heat of the moment is long passed, I’m far less confident.

Wes, bless him, finds my tank top and hands it to me, and then is polite enough to turn around. His thoughtfulness in this makes my throat tight.

“I’m ready.” Still weird, being in panties and a tank top with a relative stranger.

I have to remind myself that last night was real, and it happened, and there’s no reason to be embarrassed or feel awkward.

Yet, I do.

He stands in front of me. “Okay, how do you want me to help you? Carry you? Help you stand up?”

I’m dizzy as I move to sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. Brace my hands on my knees, breathe through it. “Just…just a minute. Need to catch my breath.”

I can tell he’s shocked that I’m this out of breath and weary just from sitting upright. Reality sucks. I liked it better in the cocoon of heat and sexuality, last night. That was way better than feeling like this.