69. Mira

69

MIRA

Everything is fine.

I wouldn't be making breakfast for Aiden like it was any other day if things weren't fine. Which means they must be fine.

As long as I don't think about all the other dumpster fires raging around me, I can keep on believing they'll stay fine.

I can't think about the way Zane walked through the living room this morning, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, without even looking at me.

I can't think about how long I stood in front of my bedroom door last night, begging myself to have the courage to walk across the hall and talk to him.

Every other man in your life has hurt you and disappointed you, but Zane isn't those men, I told myself. He'll take care of you.

My pep talk couldn't override decades of hard-won experience, so I slouched back to bed and cried myself to sleep.

But I can't think about that, either.

I swallow down the emotion clawing up my throat and pad down the hall to Aiden's room. I want him to get as much rest as he can since he's still sick, but it's almost nine. He hasn't slept this late in… ever, as far as I know.

I crack his door open and the air is stale. It's what I imagine walking into a plague tent must feel like. I inch towards the little lump in the center of the bed, not wanting to wake him up if he needs his sleep.

He's on his side, the blankets bunched around his shoulders. His mouth is open and there's a little circle of drool on his pillowcase. But the sleepy mess of blonde hair on his head makes my chest ache.

He and Zane have the exact same head of hair. Whenever I see either of them, I have to fight the urge to run my fingers through it.

I reach out to gently brush his hair to the side, but as soon as my fingers make contact, I jerk my hand back.

He's on fire.

I press the back of my hand to Aiden's forehead and I swear I hear a sizzle. He is burning up.

I click on the small lamp next to his bed and his eyelids don't even flutter. "Aiden?" I pull the blankets down. "Honey, can you hear me?"

There's sweat around the collar of his shirt and the longer I look at him, the more I see his lips have a blue tinge.

My heart lurches into my throat. I shake his shoulder a bit harder. "Aiden. Wake up, buddy. Come on." His eyelids flutter, and I keep shaking. "Can you hear me?"

Finally, one eye cracks open, and I sag in relief.

"Mira?" His voice is a tiny, broken, hoarse little croak. "Can… can I h-have a popsicle?"

It doesn't exactly ease the lump in my throat, but things can't be so far gone if he still wants a popsicle.

Except Aiden barely has the strength to sit up, let alone hold a popsicle. I have to hold a pink one to his lips while I furiously Google his symptoms with my other hand.

I'm scrolling through an article about tuberculosis when Aiden shoves the popsicle away and doubles over in a cough. He coughs and coughs and coughs .

His lungs rattle and he's coughing so hard he can't catch his breath. His lips go from blue-tinged to full-on blue.

I pat his back and rub his shoulders, but I'm helpless. There's nothing I can do.

He finally sinks back into his bed, but he waves away the popsicle when I try to offer it to him.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

He opens his mouth like he'll respond. Then his eyes flutter closed and he falls immediately to sleep.

When I take his temperature again, it's gone up.

I text Zane. Aiden isn't doing well. He has a high fever and is exhausted. I think we should call the doctor.

I know he's at practice, but I still wait for the message to go from delivered to read. My leg bounces as minutes pass and Aiden doesn't show any signs of waking up.

Five minutes is my breaking point. When Zane still hasn't even opened my message, I text Evan. I think I need a ride to the emergency room. Aiden is really sick, and I'm worried.

Evan responds immediately. On my way.

I pack a bag with snacks Aiden probably won't eat and fill his Spiderman bottle with water he probably won't drink.

As I throw puzzles and crayons in the bag, I call Zane two more times.

Nothing.

So I call Daniel.

"Mirabella," Daniel croons in a terrible Italian accent. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Aiden is sick and I can't get in touch with Zane." The words come out in a frantic rush. It's the first time I've actually said it out loud. "Do you know where Zane is?"

"Of course I'm not at the arena today," Daniel mumbles. He curses under his breath. "You could call Hanna."

I grimace. "I was trying to avoid that."

"Sometimes, she works from the press room at the arena. She might be nearby and be able to get Zane a message."

"Okay. Thanks, D."

I hang up and call Hanna, but for the first time since I met her, I'm disappointed not to hear her voice. Her voicemail pings to let me know I can leave a message.

"Hi, um, it's Mira… Zane's— Aiden's nanny," I correct. "Aiden is sick and I'm wanting to let Zane know, but he isn't answering his phone. If you see him, could you let him know? Um, thanks."

The message won't do much to convince Hanna I'm not some braindead gold digger, but whatever. If she can get a message to Zane, it will all be worth it.

I shove my phone in my pocket as another round of horrible coughing echoes down the hall from Aiden's room.

Then I turn and run.

Evan cradles Aiden as we jog towards the doors of the emergency room.

I keep trying to tell myself that I'm overreacting. I've never spent much time with kids, but they're germy creatures. Rachelle and Jemma are always complaining about their little ones coming down with some virus or cold. What do you expect when children sneeze directly into each other's eyeballs without a hint of shame or self-control?

"Which way?" Evan squeaks to a stop on the tile, panning back and forth before I point out the check-in desk along the side wall.

I run ahead of him, already rifling through the folder of Aiden's important information: Social Security, insurance, birth certificate, blood type. I had no idea what we'd need, so I brought everything.

I'm panting when I stop in front of the desk. "He's coughing," I blurt, hitching a thumb towards Evan and Aiden. "The boy; not the man. He's coughing really badly and has a high fever. He can't seem to stay awake. Oh, and his lips are blue." I count off symptoms on my fingers as sweat slides down my back. "I think that's everything."

The woman slides a clipboard to me. "Fill this out and we'll get a room ready for him."

I blink at the clipboard and then back to the woman behind the desk. She can't be older than I am—that is to say, very young—so maybe she doesn't understand what's happening here. Maybe she doesn't realize what it means when a four-year-old's lips turn blue.

"His lips are blue," I repeat in case it didn't stick the first time. "He's four and he can't breathe and his lips are blue."

As if to illustrate my point, Aiden takes a sudden, wheezing inhale in and then erupts in violent coughing.

The woman offers a sympathetic frown. "I hear you, but we don't have a room ready. As soon as it's ready, we'll?—"

"You'll put the boy in a private suite," Evan rumbles. I'm so used to seeing him happy and smiling that I've almost forgotten how big and scary he is. He steps up to the window and the nurse shrinks back. "His father, Zane Whitaker, would like his son to be seen immediately."

The woman's eyes widen and she spins out of her chair. "Give me a second."

"That's not going to work," I mutter. "She's probably going to get security."

I'm about to look up where the next closest hospital is, but Evan tips his head towards the wall…

Where a poster of the Phoenix Angels' starting lineup is tacked to a bulletin board with heart-shaped pins. "I think she's going to get us that room."