Chapter 30

30

Tripp

Lila's not coming home.

The last time I talked to her, she sounded like she had bronchitis and strep throat and the flu and pneumonia and an ear infection and needed her tonsils out, which I can acknowledge is definitely my hypochondria talking, but this morning, she texted that she's rescheduling her flight because her ears are a little stuffy, which I know damn well means she's sick as hell.

And that's not the paranoia talking.

That's the man who knows she's trying to shield me from the truth talking.

I tell Waylon to leave my kids with my mom when he's had enough of them, and I head to the airport, which is what I should've done two days ago.

Even using a private jet, the whole process of getting in the air takes too long, and once we're on our way, I can't sit still.

Traffic in New York is a nightmare, like usual, made worse by a snowstorm that all the Christmas lights all over the place can't make better, but at least Levi's with me. He picks me up at the airport, and he keeps poking me when I start biting my fingernails while his bodyguard drives us through the city.

"Don't do this," he says. "It's a cold. I get why you're worried, but she's going to be fine."

"It's not just a cold. My gut says so."

"Your gut's a hypochondriac."

"And it's fucking earned that right."

He stops arguing, and when we finally make it to Lila's apartment building, he's beside me every step of the way.

She needs chicken noodle soup. She needs decongestants and water and sleep. Swear to god, if she's working, I'm going to sit on her and make her stay on the damn couch until she sleeps for seventeen hours straight, and then make her do it all again tomorrow.

And I need to know this isn't as bad as I'm afraid it is.

Levi checked on her two days ago and told me she was taking care of herself, that it was a mild cold, and that she wasn't even as bad as James and Emma were last month.

He was lying, and we both know it, but if she'd been dying, he would've told me.

He knows I love her. He knows she's getting to know the kids more, that they adore her and that she's asked about them so much while she's been gone that I've been joking she's only with me for them.

He knows she's been good for me too, both at work, and at home, and with all of my paranoia.

Until today.

He knows she's nothing I expected, and everything I want.

I usually bounce from challenge to challenge, but I've never felt like THIS before , she whispered to me one night not long after Thanksgiving. I might leave the Fireballs one day, but I will NEVER leave you. You're my heart, Tripp Wilson, and my heart needs you.

My heart's quivering when we step off the elevator.

She needs me.

All of her. And I should've been here three days ago.

She doesn't answer the knock at the door, so I call her security team in to open it for us.

"She doesn't want visitors, Mr. Wilson, but I'm sure she'll make an exception for you," her head of security reports while he lets us in. "It's just a cold. She's getting better."

I ignore him and push into her apartment. It's so dark in here, and it smells like death.

Like disinfectant weighed down by the weight of the inevitable, and my gut recoils in a way I haven't felt in almost two years. I clamp a hand over my mouth and force myself to walk past the entryway to the small living room, where Lila's huddled in a pile of blankets, eyes closed while a large television plays The Princess Bride over a gas fireplace.

A strangled cry slips out of my lips, because fuck .

Is she dead?

She snort-snuffles and jerks awake. "Hello?"

My heart cramps. Completely closes in on itself, because she sounds like a frog trying to talk through a stream, and when she sucks in a breath and erupts in a coughing fit, I'm back in a hospital room, watching Jessie deteriorate before my eyes.

Engulfed in hopelessness.

In fear.

In denial.

In knowing that a microscopic organism was going to take my wife away from me, and there was nothing I could fucking do about it .

This is different , I tell myself.

I suck in a deep breath, realize I'm infecting myself, picture Emma's little body in that hospital bed too, fighting to live, and I can't.

I can't do this again.

I can't .

"Tripp?"

She hunches over coughing again, that deep, raspy cough that sounds like it's fighting its way out of a mud hole. "I told—you—stay away," she rasps between coughs.

"So you can fucking die here all by yourself?"

I don't recognize my own voice, and I don't know who's gripping my shoulder, but I know I can't stay here.

I can't get attached.

Fuck . I'm already attached, but I have to get unattached.

Now.

I can't fall apart again. Not when James and Emma are settled. When I'm settled. When I finally feel almost whole again.

Almost .

And that's as good as it's ever going to get, because every time I let my guard down and fall in love, fucking germs ruin it all.

"Hold on, Tripp," Levi says.

Levi.

I'm exposing my brother to the germs too.

I'm signing his death warrant with my own. And even knowing I'm being a melodramatic, hypochondriac shit , I can't stop myself.

"Out," I order him. " Out. "

My vision's blurry as I shove him back out of the apartment. I should go back in.

Make sure Lila's okay.

Get her to a doctor.

Fix her.

Save her.

But I can't.

I can't make myself go back in there. James and Emma need me too damn much.

I can't get sick too. I need to disinfect. I need antibiotics. I need to quit hyperventilating.

"Call 9-1-1 if you fucking have to, but get her to a fucking doctor again ," I snarl at the guard.

And then I head for the stairs.

Must.

Get.

Clean.

"Tripp," Levi calls after me. I don't know what floor I'm on. The fifteenth? The sixtieth?

Do I care?

"Tripp, don't do this." Levi's pounding after me. "People get sick, and they get better. Lila's going to be okay."

"But I'm fucking not ."

And what kind of partner am I to anyone if I can't handle a cold?

The worst kind, that's what kind.

Jessie used to joke about man-colds. She'd tell me I was high maintenance and make me homemade chicken noodle soup and tuck me into bed and make sure I talked to my mom twice a day.

But she'd still take care of me.

And I can't do the same for anyone other than my kids. I can hardly be there for them without losing my freaking mind, because if it's not Jessie, it's Emma.

Her little body racked with that cough. Hooked up to IVs. Sitting there in that intensive care unit with her, waiting for the fever to go down, making bargains with the universe that both my girls could be saved.

I can't do it again.

I can't.

If I have to choose between raising my kids alone and spending the rest of my days reliving the darkest memories of my life every time someone so much as coughs, then I'm not the partner anyone needs.

I'd rather be alone.

I don't know how many flights I've gone when I realize Levi's not behind me anymore.

But when I get to the ground level, I don't wait for him. I hail a cab.

And I take the chickenshit way out, and I leave.

I can't do this. I was a fool to think I could.