Shh! (19 page)

His message came back almost instantly.

The apartments on Rawson Street. Can’t remember the street number—it’s about halfway along. If he’s there you’ll see his car out front. Everything OK?

Not sure. I’ll let you know.

I started walking toward the shopping centre’s exit. If I hailed a cab, I could be there in less than ten minutes. This town wasn’t big enough to take any longer, no matter where Rawson Street was.

“Where are you going?” Molly asked.

“To check on him.”

“Don’t you think that’s overreacting?”

“Not if he’s too sick to answer a simple text or phone call.” I shook my head. “You don’t have to come. I know you’ve got class soon.”

“I can’t let you go alone.”

Molly and I were at the taxi rank in no time, but darn it, there wasn’t a car in sight. I pulled out my phone and dialled the cab company. The operator said there’d be a thirty-minute wait. To hell with that. I flicked the map app open on my phone and typed in Rawson Street. It wasn’t too far away, so I started walking in that direction—which was back toward campus.

“Are you crazy?” Molly puffed behind me.

“It’s not far.”

A few minutes into our walk, my phone buzzed with a message. It might be Logan—maybe he was okay after all, and Dane had called to tell him I was coming over. If he’d been hiding from me, he’d have to own up and tell me I wasn’t welcome. I should really look at the message, but I was scared, which was insane. It buzzed again.

“You going to get that?” Molly asked. Her messages pinged as well.

Clenching my jaw, I pulled the phone out of my pocket.

Your Results. LS231 NA LS220 C

I wasn’t surprised. Not really. But the weight of dread slammed into my chest, making it hard to draw breath. A credit for Constitutional Law was bad, but a fail-incomplete for Torts? My head spun with the repercussions of not meeting all the unit requirements. It made me look lazy, and unorganised, and like I just didn’t care. It was detrimental to my academic record.

Logan.
Logan.
Logan was sick and he needed me. I repeated the mantra over and over as I trudged up the inclining street.

Fail incomplete.

LOGAN.

Twenty minutes and a walk uphill in almost the same direction as campus later, we stood out the front of a two-storey block of apartments. Autumn leaves scattered around us, and just as Dane had said, Logan’s Corolla was parked out front. I typed out another text to Dane.

Found it. Which apartment is it? I can’t tell from where the car’s parked.

Minutes passed.

Come on Dane, hurry up.
Molly puffed beside me, her hands fisted on her hips and half bent over, like she’d just run a marathon. Maybe I should recruit her for netball; the season would start soon, and she’d thank me when she noticed she’d gotten fit while playing. I tapped my foot, looking between the various apartments for any sign of which was the right one. I wasn’t trying to keep my mind occupied, not at all. I wasn’t sarcastic either. Never on your life.

There seemed to be six apartments in total. The top floor on the right had plants on its balcony; the other one was full of clothes-airers. Two balconies were completely empty of anything, but chairs and heck, I had no freaking idea. My phone buzzed. Thank all things holy.

3

Excellent. I strode up to the third apartment, and after I’d glimpsed the metal
three
attached to the sandy-coloured bricks, I rapped on the wooden door. There was no answer. Something scuttled through the shrub to my left and I flinched. A tabby cat darted away.

I rapped on the door again, louder this time, and called out Logan’s name.

Still nothing.

He was inside because his car was out the front, and I could hear the TV playing.

“Logan,” I yelled. “Let me in.”

I glanced back at Molly, who was still standing on the street, and shrugged. A groan came from behind the door. He must still be sick. I tried the handle. It was locked. But then the door swung open and Jordan stood behind it, using the door to hold himself up. He looked terrible, his dark hair in a shaggy mess, and his face drawn.

“You guys all right?” I asked.

Jordan groaned and shuffled to a brown couch that stretched in front of the TV, which blared out crappy daytime soap operas. There wasn’t much furniture in the almost bare apartment, only the essentials, but a mess was strewn all around the place. Scrunched up tissues, school bags, shoes … I took a step inside and the musty, sick smell almost knocked me over.

“Geez, it smells like you guys are dying in here.” I left the door open and shut the screen behind me. I had no idea what Molly was doing, but she’d come in if she wanted to. A large window stood to the right of the door, so I tugged the blinds back and slid the window open to let in some fresh air.

Jordan moaned something about bright lights.

His spot on the couch looked like a sick bed. An empty water bottle toppled on its side was surrounded by a sea of tissues, speckled with empty food wrappers. A blanket scrunched up at his feet, Jordan’s arm hung over the side of the couch and his tummy was flush against the fabric, his white school shirt scrunched up around his chest to expose his whole back. I bent down beside him, and Jordan’s glassy-eyed gaze focused on my face.

“Leave me alone. I’m dying.”

I laughed. “You’re not dying. You’ve got the flu. Where’s Logan? Is he like this too?”

“Bed,” Jordan groaned.

As I stood, I spotted a hall off this room. I’d noticed a kitchen around the corner, so this had to lead to their bedrooms. Four doors opened off it and in the first one I looked there was a double bed which took up almost the entire room. Flung across it, flat on his back was Logan, not looking any better than his brother. His eyes were closed and his hair dark and damp where it was plastered against his head.

He looked terrible. If they were both sick like this, he should have called. I could have come to help—at least aired out the place for them. His sweat pants twisted all askew, the legs pushed up around his knees to show off muscled calves with a smattering of coarse hair. His t-shirt clung to his chest and tummy where it was damp with sweat. The toned muscles on display were impressive—abs that looked not only defined but rock hard.

How that could be when he claimed to be a sports
spectator
was beyond me. I bet they felt as awesome as they looked. I reached out … Good heavens, I was a creep. Here he was, sick as a dog, and I was checking him out. My gaze flew back to his face, my cheeks heating. I dropped to the bed, sitting beside him, and pushed the matted mop of hair back off his forehead. Logan’s eyes rolled open; his blue irises were only a slither at the top; the rest was all white. Beads of sweat coated his forehead in a light sheen. Far out, was he okay?

“Logan,” I said his name softly.

His eyes rolled forward, but he didn’t focus. They kind of slid right off me. “Kay?” he said. His voice, dry and husky, broke on the word.

“It’s me.” I tried to reassure him by placing my hand over his.

“Kayla, I’m sorry.”

I had no idea who Kayla was, but Logan wasn’t well. He was burning up and I needed to cool him off. He was in a way worse state than Jordan.

“Jordan,” I yelled as I rushed back into the living room. “You guys got any meds and would Logan have taken any?”

“Kitchen. Nah, hasn’t moved outta bed in days.”

I rushed into the tiny kitchen, which wasn’t in a much better state than the rest of the place, and threw open cupboards like a crazy person. I couldn’t see anything that looked like what I wanted. Sheesh, if I had to walk back to town it’d take almost an hour round trip.

Aha! Sitting by the sink full of dirty dishes was a packet of ibuprofen. I snatched it up and filled a glass with water, then returned to Logan’s room.

He didn’t even register my presence. I popped two tablets from the packet and tried to pull him up, but he was a dead weight. “You need to take something to drop the fever. Sit up.”

He shuffled up onto his elbows and I pressed the tablets against his lips. Logan accepted them, so I held the glass to his mouth too. He took a sip and collapsed back on the pillows.

“I should’ve been there … all my fault.” His words jumbled, but I could still make them out, even though I had no idea what he thought was his fault. Poor thing. His usual stubble was thicker than normal, as if he hadn’t shaved all week. His damp hair had caught in it again, so I brushed it back from his face. He was so hot. A flannel, that was what we needed. There’d have to be one in the bathroom.

“Liv?” Molly’s voice came from outside. “Liv … you okay in there?”

“Yeah,” I yelled out. “They’re both dying of man flu.”

I changed paths and headed back into the living room where Molly had her face pressed up against the screen door. “Smells like someone died in there.”

“Yeah, death by flu. It’s got you in its grip, right Jordan?”

A groan came from the couch and Molly snickered.

“Look,” I told her, “I’m going to stay for a bit and make sure they’re both all right. You’ve got a class to make, so head back. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Can I get you guys anything?”

“I think we’re all good.”

“Okay, but make sure you text later to let me know you’re all right. Maybe I can find someone to come back and pick you up.”

“That’d be great. Now, shoo, get to class.”

Molly nodded, then turned and walked away.

I returned to my hunt for a flannel and found a stash of clean linen in a cupboard in the hall. Running it under cool water, I returned to Logan’s room and pressed it against his forehead. He moaned and squirmed against it, but didn’t talk like before. At one point his eyes rolled so far back all I could see were the whites, and even though I called his name and placed my hand on his cheek he never registered I was there.

When the tablets set in and he cooled down, I sat with him for a good half hour more until finally he seemed to be asleep. His forehead wasn’t as hot as it had been, and the sweat was gone from his brow, but that could have been because I’d mopped it all up with the cloth. Hopefully the meds had brought his fever down.

Now that I’d slowed and Logan wasn’t so bad, it felt kind of intimate to be in his room. Band posters covered the walls, but not so many I couldn’t see the cream paint. Some sort of flag hung above the bed. The bands weren’t familiar to me other than Quiet Renegade.

I went to check on Jordan, and he had passed out too. They both needed to rest to recover. A quick look around the kitchen showed a very bare fridge and not much else. While they slept I should duck into town and grab some stuff.
Brilliant idea
. I called a cab and went to wait out the front.

Over an hour later I was back with supplies; more tissues—those soft aloe vera ones—another packet of pain killers, energy drinks to refuel electrolytes and fight dehydration, fresh oranges, and a bunch of packet mixes to make brothy soups.

I let myself in and Jordan was sitting on the couch, a flannel balanced on his forehead.

“How’re you feeling?” I asked as I walked into the kitchen to set the shopping bags down.

“Meh.”

I tossed him a bottle of drink and grabbed a second one which I took in to Logan. Jordan might be looking better, but Logan was much the same. He looked to be still sleeping, but not peacefully. The sheets had twisted around him, as if he’d fought with them. I untangled him from the damp, sweaty linen and I got some fluids into him, then switched the washcloth for a fresh one and grabbed some clean sheets for when I could make him move.

I flicked a quick text to Dane telling him both of them were sick, and I was going to take Logan to the doctor in the morning since it was nearing four p.m, and they’d all be closed soon. He responded back asking if I needed any help, and I told him I’d contact him in the morning. Next I sent a message to Savvy asking her to let the team know I wouldn’t make it to hockey.

That night was long. Jordan wasn’t too bad. After a nap, he got up, and even ate some soup and bread for dinner. But Logan tossed and turned and mumbled, and sweated out at least a gallon of fluids. I kept pumping them back into him, along with doses of pain meds as often as I could to keep the fever in check. When they wore off he was really bad. Morning couldn’t come quick enough and at one point I thought about the ER.

But I must have fallen asleep in the beanbag I’d dragged into the corner of his room, because I woke to Logan saying my name. He was sitting on the side of his bed, staring at me. “Liv,” he croaked.

Oh my gosh. I slept. Right here. In his room.

But I couldn’t think about that. Not when he was finally coherent. I leaned forward onto my knees, kneeling at the side of his bed. “How are you feeling? Hungry? Thirsty? Do you want another blanket, fresh sheets?”

“My throat is killing,” he rasped out. “I feel like I swam across the Atlantic.”

His face twisted, clearly in pain, as he swallowed, and his hands pushed down on the mattress either side of him. I glanced at my watch; it’d been five hours, he could have another dose of pain meds. I climbed to my feet and pulled the spare blanket I’d snuggled under around my shoulders to ward off the cold air. Logan’s hand brushed against mine as I shuffled past him. His gaze held mine for a moment, then I slipped out of his room and grabbed more medicine and another bottle of sports drink.

He pulled some truly terrifying faces as he swallowed, then lay back down. “C’mere,” he croaked and I moved to sit on the side of his bed. Logan’s arms swept around me, and pulled me back into him. He shuffled over to the other side of the bed, and rolled onto his side, pulling me up against him. He didn’t feel scorching hot anymore, but his chest pressed against my side still felt like fire. That wasn’t from his fever; I was pretty certain it had broken.

It was all me.

Logan’s breathing evened out almost immediately as he dozed off to sleep. Mine didn’t. I laid there concentrating on the beats of my heart, telling myself all the reasons I shouldn’t like the feeling of being in his arms. Even if he was sick, and possibly still delirious, when he had asked me to climb into his bed. Eventually, I eased myself out of his hold and returned to the beanbag.