“What the fuck are wings,” I snap under my breath.
I’m half tempted to just call Kennedy and demand she tell me what fucking wings are and if she wants those because her list gave me nothing fucking else to go off of other than ‘tampons’.
Instead, I snap the band on my wrist. She’s resting. Like she fucking should be. I won’t bother her.
A middle-aged woman rounds the corner of the aisle, sees me, and starts rolling her cart in my direction. I grab three boxes of tampons at random and throw them in with the rest of the groceries. I hurry past her, and snap a terse “Fuck off” when she opens her mouth to ask if I need help.
Wheeling my cart toward the registers, I double-check Kennedy’s list. It’s short. Mostly composed of canned soup and medicine and feminine hygiene products.
I look at the contents in the cart. Medicine. Tampons. Other small food items from the list. Fresh veggies. Chicken broth. Noodles. All the ingredients for soup, and none of them canned. I check the time on my phone. My flight’s not until mid-afternoon. I’d wanted to leave early, get through security, and spend the rest of my time waiting at an airline bar. I can ring up these purchases, make sure Kennedy’s settled, and still make it to the city, though I won’t have time for a drink before departure. I’ll cut it close, but it’s doable.
With that in mind, I turn down the next aisle. And I’m assaulted with green.
Green everywhere. Streamers. Lights. Candy and children’s toys and cartoon leprechauns with pots of gold. Blankets with dancing four leaf clovers and rainbow patterns.
The memory from last night hits me. Not of Kennedy slapping me. But of her playfully pinching me for not wearing green.
Walsh family tradition.
I remember her in the emergency clinic room, telling me about how that prick Keeland botched Valentine’s Day the year before. If that was how he treated a day for couples, then what the fuck did he do on St. Patrick’s Day, another day with significant meaning for Kennedy? Or her fucking birthday?
I remember not half an hour ago. That forlorn look at her packed suitcase, going nowhere. Because I realize, though she’d never said a word, where she’d planned to spend her spring break. A cherished family holiday. Her birthday. With sisters who share the same color hair and a dad who loves football and probably a mom with hazel eyes.
Shit.
I blindly grab items from the shelves. Pack the cart until it’s almost entirely green. Spend a fucking fortune on decor that will only live long enough to see the inside of a trash can by the end of the week. Drive back to Main Desire and pack a second bag of clothes meant for cooler weather. Check on Rowe before I leave again, though he doesn’t fucking notice me opening his door. Drop everything in the front entryway when I walk back in Kennedy’s house. Roll up my sleeves. And get to work.
21
Kennedy
A cool hand on my forehead wakes me up. Fingers brush hair from my face and lightly press into my cheek.
“You don’t have a fever,” I hear the deep voice above my head.
I open my eyes, slowly, sure I must be dreaming because Spencer sits on the edge of my bed, smoothing a hand over my hair. Vaguely, I recall him stopping by and demanding I return to bed. How long ago was that? I try to sit up, and the movement reminds me that my whole body feels like it’s been run through a woodchipper.
Strong arms help me sit up. When I’m propped against my headboard, Spencer asks, “Good?”
I open my mouth, but my throat feels like I’ve eaten sandpaper. So I shake my head, and then it’s like I’m underwater, my hearing muffled and my nose wet and my cheeks sore and swollen.
Spencer hands me a cup of water. I drink from it, thirsty. Then he gives me a bottle of multi-symptom medicine, and I take a swig from it. He chuckles when I grimace at the taste, then caps the bottle off and stands. “Get up. You need a shower.”
“No. Sleep,” I whine.
“A shower will help you feel better.”
I groan, but he helps me out of bed. I direct him to grab a change of pajamas from my dresser. We make it as far as the bathroom, and I stop him from following me. Because when I move, my midsection cramps. Not only did my exhaustion from the night before mean I woke up with a head cold, but I’d gotten a double whammy of the first day of my period, as well. Once I’ve convinced Spencer I won’t fall in the shower, he leaves my clothes by the door, starts the water, and gives me privacy.
I undress, knocking off a box from the bathroom counter when I throw down my shirt. I pick the box of tampons up, and when I place it back on the counter, I see there are two more like it, each a different brand.
Laughter bubbles in my throat as I glance at the door. How many tampons does Spencer think a girl goes through in a week?
Steam fills the room as the water heats up, and when I move to get into the shower too quickly, my head spins. Carefully, I lower myself to the tub floor. As much as I’d told Spencer I’m feeling well enough to stand, I don’t want to prove myself wrong and make him come running if I slip. The combination of the warmth and the steam and the sense of washing off my clammy sick skin does actually
