“What happened?” I get up from my spot on the carpet where the kids are watching TV and drawing in their drawing books and I’m by his side in a split second. “Matt, what’s wrong?”
He’s breathing hard, not exactly that scary rattling sound from this morning, but still wheezing. Like he can’t draw a deep breath. His gaze is hollow, his jaw clenched, his lips white.
“Matt?” I haven’t touched him yet, not sure he has seen or heard me at all. His eyes are so distant he might as well be looking at another galaxy. It’s as if he’s not really here.
It scares me to death.
Then he lifts a scrunched-up piece of paper in his fist, and my blood turns to ice. “This son of a bitch.”
I reach for the paper, but he takes a step back, the movement unsteady. “What does it say?”
“Nothing. Just… motherfucker. Keeps fucking me over. What does he want?” He stares down at the ball of paper, his breathing growing more labored. He shakes his fist. “What do you want?”
He’s making no sense. I glance back at the kids, and they’re arguing over changing the TV channel to another kids program.
Good.
“Did you find that on the door?” I glance at it. It’s half-open. “Was there a knife? What does it say?”
He finally seems to notice me. He unclenches his fingers, and I take the piece of paper from his hand. “Tay,” he whispers.
And then he sways. One moment he’s staring at the paper I’m unfolding, the next he stumbles sideways, his shoulder knocking into the wall.
Shit. “Hey.” The paper flutters to the floor as I make a grab for him because he looks like he’s about to fall over. “Jesus, just…”
“Motherfucking shit.” He slams a hand into the wall, and I swear it leaves a dent in the plaster.
But his voice is shaky.
“Are you drunk?” I wrap an arm around his waist, trying to steady him, but he’s a big guy, all six feet something of him, big boned and heavily muscled. “Talk to me.”
“M’fine.” He slurs the words. “Not drunk.”
“Then what?” I manage to pull him off the wall and drape one of his arms over my shoulders. His body burns against me. “Lean on me, okay? Let’s get you to bed.”
“To hell with that.” But he is leaning on me, his breathing hot and fast, and Jesus, the heat wafting from his body is scorching. “Said m’fine.”
“Humor me.” God, this is like gentling a wild animal. The kids are staring at us now, and I smile at them, hoping to reassure them. “Your daddy and me, we have a few things to discuss upstairs, okay? Just stay here and be good, and I’ll come down in a bit to give you some ice cream. Okay, guys?”
They both nod, their small faces earnest and worried.
It doesn’t help that Matt groans, hunching over. What is wrong with him? Now I’m getting really worried, too. His breath doesn’t smell of alcohol, so he was telling the truth. He isn’t drunk.
But he’s shaky and unsteady, and too hot, and all this spells sick. “How long have you been feeling off?”
“All day,” he admits softly as we make our way to the stairs, defeat in his tone. “Threw up twice at work.”
Oh God, I get a feeling I know what this is. “You got the bug from the kids.”
He doesn’t deny it. “But you didn’t,” he sort of grumbles, then says more softly, “I’m glad.”
“I rarely get sick. I’m immune. Been through all the diseases on the planet as a kid.”
He doesn’t contest that, and it takes all my concentration to get him up the stairs, stopping every couple of steps for him to catch his breath.
By the time we reach his bedroom, my arms and back are killing me from trying to support his weight, and he looks terrible, his eyes glassy and his face pale and beaded with sweat. His back is soaked, his skin burning the inside of my arm that’s wedged around his waist.
We stumble inside and make it to the bed, and he falls on it, dragging me down with him.
I disentangle myself and roll him on his back. “You’re burning up. We need to get the fever down.”
He only grunts, his eyes closing, like he’s too exhausted to care if he lives or dies.
But here’s the crux of the problem, right here:
I do.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Matt
Who the fuck hit me over the head with a shovel? Because that’s how this feels like. Hit me over the head, and then kicked me in the chest for good measure.
Or… I’m sick. Right.
Tay said so.
Haven’t been sick in ages. Not physically sick, not like this, except when I drank too fucking much, but even then… This is like rusty nails being hammered into my skull, into the back of my eyeballs, into every joint in my body.
Guess it was a long time coming. The total destruction of Matt Hansen.
“You will lose what she has lost,” a voice whispers in my ear—or maybe inside my mind. The room swims in my eyes every time I open them, so I shut them again, and drift like a log on a river, gently spinning. “You will lose what’s precious to you.”
What’s precious? What’s the most precious thing?
My kids.
And Octavia. Her touch, her voice.
No, no. This makes no sense.
Nothing makes sense.
The river current gets stronger, whisking me down, over rocks, between logs, and it’s getting colder. I can’t stop shivering.
“Tay,” I whisper, because she can warm me up. She can pull me out of the water.
The other option is the bottom of his river, with the fish and the dead things.
“I’m here,” she says, and some warmth returns to my body. Blankets, I think, being wrapped around me, and something cool is placed on my burning forehead. “Rest.”
No choice but to do what she says. I feel like I’ve been running forever. I’m so fucking tired, I just can’t… can’t go on like this.
“Then let go,” Emma says. She’s sitting on the bed beside me, dressed in one of her favorite dresses, a black one with white polka dots. Her hair is gathered at the back of her neck and her face is grave.
“Of what?”
“Of me.”
A jolt goes through me, and I realize it’s fear. “I can’t. I fucking can’t, you know that.”
“You have to, Matt.”
“No fucking way. You can’t ask this of me.”
“I’m tied down.” And I know she’s telling the truth. “I don’t want you to go down with me.”
“Emma, no.”
She touches my face, and her hand is cold, so cold. “I want you to live, because I love you. Take care of our kids. And take care of yourself.”
I’m crying. I’m fucking crying like a baby, and I don’t care. I don’t want her to go, dammit. The tears rolling down my face are cold, like her hand.
“It’s okay,” she says.
But it’s not her.
I blink, and the pretty eyes looking into mine are familiar. “Tay.” I reach for her, and she lets me pull her down, close. “She’s gone.” I grab the back of Octavia’s head and drag her closer, until her face is pressed up to my neck. “Gone.”