Chapter Thirteen

As the professor drones on, I take a sip of my tea that's now lukewarm. When I woke up this morning, I felt fine, but as the day progressed, I've started to feel worse. It started with itchy eyes, and then the tickle in the back of my throat started. Now I'm trying to fight the urge to cough.

So cold , I think as I take another sip of the tea.

I can feel the goose bumps on my arms even though I'm wearing a long sleeve under a hoodie, and my baby hairs are sticking to the back of my neck. My hands shake as I set my empty cup down.

Shit.

The last thing I need is to get sick. Frankly, I don't have time for it.

By the time class ends, I'm fighting the urge to go to sleep. I reach into my bag and pull out a scarf and wrap it around my mouth and nose. Next, I pull out some hand sanitizer and clean my hands. I'd rather not spread my germs if I can help it.

At a snail's pace, I leave class and make my way toward my dorm. I have two more classes today, but there is no way in hell I'll make it through either without passing out.

"Hey, what are you doing out of class?" Peyton asks as I walk into the room.

"Sick," I rasp as I drop my stuff onto the floor, not caring that it's in the way.

She turns and looks at me, frowning. "You look like shit."

"I feel like it too," I tell her as I crawl into bed.

Without warning, a coughing fit hits, and I curl into a ball as I fight to breathe.

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's coughing. I hate the way it makes my body tense and how you just have to let it run its course.

"I don't do sick. Especially vomit. Please tell me you don't feel like you're going to vomit." She cringes once I'm done coughing.

"Not right now, but the day is young," I tell her as I close my eyes.

Just five minutes.

Then I feel something hit the bed and bounce off my side. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and see that she threw a bottle of pain reliever at me.

"Take that."

"Thanks, mom," I say sarcastically as I dump a couple of pills into my hand. I toss them into my mouth and swallow them without taking a drink.

"Gross," Peyton mutters. "Do you need anything before I go to class? Cough drops?"

While cough drops do sound awesome right about now, I know I won't be up long enough to use them, and she's already running late to class.

"No, I got it. Thanks though."

"Cool. I'll text you before I come back to see if you want anything," she says as she walks toward the door.

"Later."

"Oh, Grace," she says, making me look her way. "Don't forget to email your teachers. The last thing you want to do is get into trouble for missing class."

"Thanks."

As she closes the door, I pull my phone out of my pocket and send a quick email to my professors, letting them know why I won't be in class. Before I can set my phone down, a text comes through from Clay.

Clay: Are we studying at the library tonight or at one of our places?

"Fuck," I mutter as I run my hand over my face as guilt sets in.

I need to cancel. While he's got a solid grasp on the material and rarely asks for my help, I still feel bad. What if tonight is the one night that he actually needs help and I'm not there to answer his questions?

There is no way I can sit through a study session tonight, not even for Clay.

Me: Hey, I'm sorry, but I need to cancel our study session for tonight. I'm not feeling so hot.

He responds back right away.

Clay: Do you need anything?

I can't help but smile when I read his message.

He's so sweet. He's willing to come over while I'm sick, which is something Kellan would have never done until he knew I wasn't contagious. The guy is just like Peyton, and just the thought of being sick gives him hives. Plus, God forbid he gets sick and has to miss hockey.

I remember our sophomore year of high school when he got the stomach flu. His parents had to lock him in his room to stop him from trying to go to hockey practice. He about drove his parents and me crazy with constant whining about missing it.

I push thoughts of him out of my mind and text Clay back.

Me: No, I'm okay. I'm just going to sleep it off.

Clayton: Okay. Let me know if you change your mind. Seriously, I'm here if you need me.

Me: Thank you.

I set my phone down on my nightstand and sit up slowly. Very carefully, I get out of bed and make my way to my closet. A wave of dizziness hits me as I change out of my clothes into something more comfortable. Once I've ditched my jeans and sweatshirt, I'm hit with full-body shivers.

Dammit.

I make my way back to my bed and sit down. I open my nightstand and pull out a thermometer and take my temperature.

102.2 degrees.

"That's not good," I whisper to myself.

For a split second, I wish that I was at home with my mom. I hate the way she hovers when I'm sick, but right about now it doesn't sound too bad. She would make me soup and wait on me hand and foot.

The thermometer's screen dims, pulling me back to the present and reminding me that I do, in fact, have a fever.

Well, there's nothing I can do about it now besides sleep it off and hope that the pain reliever breaks my fever , I think to myself as I crawl under the covers. I curl as tightly as I can into my blankets, trying to warm myself up. My eyes start to grow heavy, and before I know it, I'm pulled into sleep and dreaming of a sweet hockey player with brown hair and green eyes.

"Bro, what are you doing?" Wyatt asks as he comes into the kitchen.

"Making soup," I tell him, not looking away from my phone.

Mama sent me the recipe. It's sure to make anyone feel better. I can't recall a single time when I was sick that I didn't have this soup.

Now I'm making it for Grace.

"Why?" he asks, grabbing a drink from the fridge before leaning against it.

"Grace is sick."

He frowns.

After the day we went to the arcade, Grace has become a familiar face in the house. It's only been two weeks, but she's been over making dinner for us and hanging out. She's been to two poker nights and even cleaned the guys out during one of them. She even learned how to play the video game Wyatt likes that none of the rest of us do.

She fits in around here. It's nice.

So when she texted this morning to cancel our tutoring session, I knew something was wrong. No matter how many times I tell her I'm good in my classes now, she refuses to stop tutoring me. She says she never tutored for the money. It was to help students, which she still does on the side. She said she tutors me because I'm her friend.

She would only cancel if she truly felt bad.

So I called Mama and decided to try and make this soup.

Wyatt comes over looking at the recipe. "Okay, we need all hands on deck for this," he says before calling out, "Beckett, Brett. Kitchen ASAP. SOS."

The boys' steps thunder down the stairs from their rooms as they appear at the door. Brett has his pants half-done and lipstick smeared on his face. I shake my head.

"I don't need help," I tell them, turning back to the stove.

"You're going to mess this up. Let us help," Wyatt tells me before turning to the guys. "Grace is sick, and we are making her soup."

"Shit, yeah, let me get rid of the bunny," Brett says, wiping his face before he heads back upstairs.

Beckett heads to the sink and washes his hands. Wyatt cleans his next, then they are standing next to me.

"I'll chop the celery and carrots. You get the chicken, Beck. Clayton, you do the broth and noodles." Wyatt directs each of us.

"What about Brett?" I ask.

He snorts. "Dude will be at least ten more minutes."

Just then, we hear his voice along with a female's.

"I'm sorry, darling, but my friend needs me," he tells her.

"Come on, I can make you feel better than your friend," she drawls.

"Oh, I'm sure you can sexually, but you see, my friend is important to me, so I'm going to have to pass. So I need you to go before I need to get mean."

The girl huffs before the front door slams. Then Brett is in the kitchen with us.

"Where do you need me?"

We all stare at him, shocked. He has never once turned down a hookup.

"Why are you all staring at me like that?"

"Did you just kick a sure thing out?" I ask.

"Grace is sick. We need to get her better ASAP."

"Are you serious?" Beckett speaks up.

"Dead serious. Grace is more important. So what are we doing?"

When we don't move, he claps his hands. "She needs the soup, assholes. Move."

That spurs us into action. After he washes his hands, he starts the noodles while I work on the broth. Wyatt has the chicken cut up and seasoned, ready to be added to a pan to cook.

Together, we work as a team as we make what I hope is the best soup ever. Once it's done, we package it all up. Before I leave, Brett runs up to his room, coming back down with a box of electrolyte packets and a bottle of vitamin C tablets.

I can't believe he cares this much. He took the entire process seriously, surprising us all.

That made Beckett and Wyatt do their own gathering missions. In the end, I ended up with marshmallows for a sore throat, according to Beckett they help, and two half packs of tissues. I really don't want to know why he has them.

The drive over to the dorm is a short one. I could have walked, but with all the things I have, I didn't want to chance dropping anything.

Deciding to leave the tissues in the car, I grab the rest of the items and head up to the door to her dorm. I buzz her room, waiting for the intercom.

"Yeah?" Peyton's voice comes over the speaker.

"It's Clayton. I brought stuff for Grace."

"Oh, thank God. She's your problem now," Peyton says, buzzing me in.

I laugh, making my way up to the dorm. She is at the open door before I even get there.

"Listen, I love her like a sister, but I cannot do sickness. She's thrown up twice, and the coughing won't stop. I've sanitized our room every hour since she started. I need to get out of here. Do you think the guys will let me stay at your place?" asks.

"You can have my room. They won't have a problem with it. I've got her. Go."

Relief fills her face. "Thank you, Clayton James. You are a lifesaver."

She grabs a bag she must have pre-packed before running out of the room like her ass is on fire.

I shake my head, closing the door. Moving to the desk in the corner of the room, I set down the items I brought before taking a look at my patient.

Grace is sleeping, but I can tell she feels terrible. She looks like she has been sweating all day. Her face is red and splotchy, and her breathing is heavy. I can hear the rattle from here.

My heart breaks for her. I know she feels really bad right now. I hate it.

Moving closer, I see the trash bin filled with throw up. I frown, changing the bag out for a new one before taking it out of the room. I easily find the dumpster for their trash, dropping it in, and heading back in the door I propped open before I headed out.

Then I head back up to her room. She hasn't moved.

Picking up my phone, I call Mama.

"What is it this time, boy?" Mama teases.

"She's sleeping and has a fever. What do I need to do to make her feel better?" I can't hide the worry in my tone.

"You've done this with Cora. Why are you so panicked right now?"

"Cora was different. She was my sister. I could pick her up and sit in the shower with her. Taking care of her is easy."

"Grace is just like your sister. You need to bring her temperature down, so either get her in the shower or use a washcloth. When she wakes up, give her a fever reducer and get her to drink fluids. Try to get her to eat if you can, but don't force it."

"Okay. I'm really worried about her, Mama. I can hear her chest rattling and everything."

"I know, baby. It's because you care. You have had plenty of experience with this, so don't overthink it. If you can't get her fever to break, then take her to the doctor in the morning. Call me if you need anything."

"Okay. Love you, Mama."

"Love you too."

Once I hang up with her, I familiarize myself with her room. I grab a bottle of water from her fridge and add an electrolyte packet to it. Then I shake it and set it next to her on the nightstand. I'm relieved when I see the fever reducer there too. I add the vitamin C next to it before moving to the bed to check her temperature with the thermometer she had sitting there.

"Grace, Shorty. I need to check your temperature." I say softly.

She groans, opening her eyes. Then she winces. "I don't want you to see me like this. This isn't sexy. I like the other dreams better."

I try to withhold the laugh. I want to know about these dreams she's been having about me, but now isn't the time. "Open up, Shorty."

She sighs, but does as I ask. Her temperature isn't good. It's 102.3.

"Shit," I mutter as I pull out my phone.

Me: When was the last time she took any pain reliever?

Peyton: A little over four hours ago.

Me: Thanks.

Thank God, that means I can give her another dose to try and get this fever down.

"Can you lean up? I need you to take some medicine. Then you can go back to sleep."

She whimpers as I help her sit up. I shake out two pills before handing them to her, holding the bottle of water up to her lips. She takes a gulp, swallowing the pills. Then she pulls away.

"A little more for me. Can you do that?"

Her glassy eyes look at me as she coughs. "Okay."

She drinks a little more before pulling back again. I wipe at her forehead.

"Good girl. I'm going to get you a wet washcloth. Do you feel like you can eat?"

She shivers, shaking her head no.

"Okay. Be right back."

I rush down the hall, getting a bowl of water from the bathroom before going back to her room. I dip the washcloth I found in her closet in the water before wringing it out. Then I put it on her forehead.

She shivers again, but doesn't pull away.

"I'm so cold, Clay. I hurt," she whimpers.

"What can I do?" I ask, feeling helpless.

"Hold me?" she asks.

I move to lie next to her, keeping the washcloth on her head as I wrap my other arm around her. She turns, snuggling into my chest. Then she sighs, shivering against me. It's not long before she falls back asleep.

I lie there the entire time, praying that she feels better soon.

It fucking kills me to see this girl hurting.