Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(51)

Why?

Why?

I think I might be dying.

My body is too hot. I stretch across the short distance from my bed to my nightstand, reaching for my phone. My whole body screams in agony from the effort.

I check the time. Two forty-two a.m. I need water. Cold water.

After forcing one leg over the side of the bed, and then the other, I stand. Sort of. I’m bent at the waist. I shuffle out the door and down the hall, pausing twice. By the time I make it to the fridge, I’ve taken four breaks.

I’m overcome by the work it takes to remove the pitcher of water and get a cup while staying upright on shaky legs. My forehead meets the cool marble countertop for a quick rest.

“Aubrey?” Isaac is beside me.

“Hmmm?” The word reverberates against my lips. The marble feels so good even my lips are laid against it.

“Are you sick?” Concern presses into his voice.

Using my palms and every ounce of strength I have, I push up to my bent-standing position.

“I’m fine. I just… need… rest.” It’s hard to say so many words at once. “And water.” I reach for the countertop to steady myself.

Isaac wraps one arm around my lower back and the other across my chest, from shoulder to shoulder. I release some of my weight. It feels nice not to be responsible for all of it right now.

“Let’s get you to bed. I’ll bring your water.” Isaac’s voice soothes me. “Have you checked your temperature?”

“Burning,” I mumble. I don’t need a thermometer to tell me I’m around 102. It’s a mom thing.

We get to my room and Isaac helps me into bed. He pulls the covers around me and steps back. I watch him through hooded eyes.

“I’ll be right back with the water. Do you need anything else?”

“I’ll be fine,” I croak, closing my eyes.

Every second blends into the next, and I don’t know how long he takes. Eventually I feel a cold rag pressed to my forehead and hear the sound of a cup being placed on the nightstand.

I don’t trust my body right now so I can’t be certain, but I think I feel something brush my lips. Fingertips, maybe?

“Take a drink, Aubrey.” His thumb pulls on my chin, willing me to open my mouth. His hand slips behind my neck, lifting my head for me. The glass is at my lips, and I sip three times. It’s cold and possibly the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

Gently he lays my head on the pillow, his hand slipping away.

“Get some rest.” His voice is soft.

I want to compliment his bedside manner, but I don’t have the energy. Later I’ll tell him.

I don’t know if he’s left yet, but my eyes are already fluttering closed.



Isaac’s head peeks in. When he sees I’m awake, he says, “I’m taking Claire to school.”

I roll over, try to lift myself up on my forearms, but they don't work. There isn't enough energy in my body to do that, let alone care for Claire.

“Thanks,” I mumble, burying myself in my pillow. I don't want to know what I look like right now. And I definitely don't want Isaac to see me like this.

“Get some rest. I'll take care of everything.”

“Isaac, wait.” I turn my head so my lips are exposed. “Claire needs a lunch. No peanut products. And a morning snack.”

“Aubrey, I got it. Promise.”

I ignore him. How could he possibly know everything I know? “You have to write her name on the snack.” I close my eyes. I'm exhausted.

Isaac laughs quietly. “OK. Lunch, sunflower butter and jelly sandwich. Snack with name written on it. Couldn't mess it up if I tried.”

“Don't try.” My voice is muffled by the pillow.

The door falls softly into the jamb. I turn my head and let out a long exhale. I feel weird. A weirdness that extends beyond this flu.

Uneasy.

Someone else is going to take care of Claire today. I'm always the one to do it. This is the sickest I've been in years. Today Isaac will do all the things I normally do. These things aren't difficult. They don't require any special training, but they're my job.

A chill sweeps over me, my limbs jerking from the suddenness of it. It takes every ounce of strength I have to get to my dresser and pull out a sweatshirt. Once I'm huddled in bed, my knees pulled into my chest, I close my eyes and pass out.



When I wake again, it's from the sound of a soft knock.

Isaac must have come home early. Or I slept all day. My phone is lost somewhere in my sheets, so I can't check the time.

“Come in,” I call quietly.

The door opens. Lucia stands in the doorway, her face etched with a concerned smile. The rust-colored skirt she’s wearing reaches the ground, the sleeves of her jean jacket are rolled up, and a stack of gold bangles makes a tinkling sound as she sends me a small wave.

“Can I come in?” She steps in the room without waiting for my answer.

“Be careful, Lucia,” I warn as I sit up, surprising myself with my strength. “I think I have the flu. I don’t want to get you sick.”

With her hand, she brushes away my protest. “Nonsense.” She sits beside me on the bed, one leg tucked underneath her. “The flu, you say?”