Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

“You all right?” Tom asks, looking up from his watch.

“Yeah,” I grunt. “How much time left?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

I rest my knees on the grass, baked to a dried crisp by the heat, and squint up at him. “Fuck off.”

“If you’re not feeling it—”

“I can push through.”

“If you say so. But you tell me if you start to get dizzy.”

We go through some footwork next. It’s not nearly as taxing as the AMRAP, but I still find myself cursing through it.

“Come on!” I shout, as much to myself as to Tom. “You got this. Let’s fucking go.”

“There he is,” Tom replies. “You’re doing great, Rhett.”

I wait for the endorphins to kick in. And they do—my arms stop shaking—but even when I don’t feel like dying, I still find myself wishing I was home.

I shouldn’t be sweating bullets in a field with some dude who says shit like LFG.

I should be home, taking care of my son.

I shouldn’t fucking be here right now.

But work is the answer. Always was.

I made my choice. Even if it feels all kinds of wrong right now.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Amelia

Liam rubbed off on me, literally: I wake up with a fever and a sore throat.

Rose, bless her, drives me to the doctor, who informs me I have strep throat.

“I think I was twelve the last time I got strep,” I say to my grandmother on the ride to the pharmacy.

She pats my leg. “Bad things come in threes. You’ve knocked out two of them, so you just have to get through one more, and you’ll start to see the light.”

“Thanks,” I say with a wry chuckle. “I wonder what will befall me next.”

I pick up some antibiotics and Pedialyte, and then we head home. I have some of Grandma’s chicken noodle soup for a late lunch—the salt and the heat make it taste good when pretty much nothing else does—along with some biscuits smothered in butter.

Popping a pill from my Z-pack, I’m already feeling better when I climb into bed.

“You need to call Rhett,” Rose says, tucking the blankets around my legs. “Chances are Liam has what you do, which means he needs meds too.”

My stomach seizes at the thought, but she’s right. Poor little dude. I hope he doesn’t have what I do.

I glance at my phone on the nightstand. Rose takes my hand. “Want me to stay?”

I shake my head. Swallow. “I’ll be all right.”

“One bit of unsolicited advice: be kind. Even if he isn’t.”

My eyes film over. “The world doesn’t deserve you.”

“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “Good luck, lovie.”

She closes the door softly behind her, and I grab my phone. My heart pounds as I wait for Rhett to answer, making the pain in my throat throb. I wonder if I’ve ever felt more miserable.

I’m sent to voicemail. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or bummed. Either way, I begin to leave a pitiful, rambling message, trying to keep my voice even.

Just when I’m getting to my diagnosis, my phone beeps.

Rhett is calling me back.

Hand shaking, I end the voicemail and pick up.

“Hey,” I say.

“Sorry I missed you,” he replies gruffly. “I was in the shower.”

I swallow again. Look down at the quilt and pick at an errant thread as I shake my head. “It’s all right.”

“You don’t sound all right.” A pause. “In fact, you sound like shit. What’s going on?”

The concern in his voice makes the tears in my eyes spillover. I hate talking like this—carefully, like we’re strangers feeling each other out.

“I have strep throat,” I say on an exhale. “I’m worried Liam might have it, too. How’s he doing?”

“Oh, Amelia. Amelia, I’m so fucking sorry you’re sick. How are you feeling?”

“Not great. How’s Liam?”

“Also not great. Shit.” I imagine him running a hand up the back of his head. “Y’all got each other sick, didn’t you? Okay, I’ll call the pediatrician as soon as I hang up. I was going to do that anyway in a bit if his fever hadn’t broken yet. Points to—”

“An infection,” we say together, and despite everything, we both laugh.

“Since when do you finish my sentences?” he asks.

“Since right now, apparently. We’re such dorks.”

“We’re damn good at our job.”

“Are we?”

“Keeping Liam alive? He’s sick, but we’re handling it.” Another pause as the two of us let that word sink in: we. “Trying to handle it, anyway. What do you need?”

“What do you mean?”

“You need food, saltines or soup or whatever? I can bring some groceries over.”

Closing my eyes, I shake my head for what feels like the hundredth time today. “Why are you doing this? Being nice to me after being such a dick?”

His voice is gruff again. “I still care about you, A. Just because we broke up doesn’t mean I can’t help out. Tell me what you need.”

I need to see him. Shake him. Let me love you.