“What are you doing here? You’re in America. Is this a dream? Am I dreaming? If I’m dreaming, can you kiss me again?”
“I’m back from New York,” I said.
She pushed herself up from the mattress so she was sitting, opened one eye and then fell back to the mattress. “It’s so hot. Can you open a window? It’s so hot.” She moved to strip off her cow-print pajama top, but I pulled it back down.
“Wait. Let me get some fresh air in here and then we need to get some fluids into you.”
“No,” she yelped. “I’ll vomit.”
I stood and opened her window a little, just to let a little fresh air in, then reached around her and pulled her to a sitting position.
“You smell so, so, so good. Not me. I smell of vomit. You. Do. Not.”
One-handed, I grabbed pillows from where they were scattered across her bed and propped her up.
I sat opposite her and leaned forward. “Parker, I’m serious, I need you to take a small sip of water. Do you understand me?”
Both eyes open, she nodded. “As long as you understand I will vomit.”
I wasn’t sure if she was serious or whether she’d lost all mental capacity. Either way, I had to try to get some fluids into her.
I helped put a glass to her lips and she took two sips before I put the glass down. “Tastes so good.” She lay her head back on the pillow and then began to clutch at her stomach. “I’m—”
She sprinted out of the bed like she’d been set on fire and skidded into the bathroom. The clunk of the toilet seat was followed by the sound of Parker fulfilling her promise, retching the contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl.
Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her to drink. But she needed hydrating. I texted Gabriel. He’d know the number of a doctor who would make house calls. Maybe she needed an IV.
I hovered outside the bathroom door while I called the doctor Gabriel recommended.
“Parker, I’m coming in,” I said as I opened the bathroom door.
She moaned an incomprehensible response from where she was on all fours on the bathroom floor. I scooped her up and took her back to bed, then returned to the bathroom for a couple of face cloths, which I wet with cool water.
“Tristan,” Parker moaned when I approached her bedside. “You need to get out of here.”
I chuckled. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m probably contagious,” she said as I began to wipe her face with one cloth and then the next.
“Well, unless it’s Ebola, you can return the favor when I’m rolling on the floor, covered in vomit.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I should feel humiliated, but I’m too exhausted to care. I’m glad you’re here.”
She had no reason to feel humiliated. She was ill. It happened to all of us. And she was still cute—with or without the vomit.
“I’ve called the doctor. He should be here soon. Just rest.” I stroked her forehead and she closed her eyes in a lazy blink.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked.
“Is a new body on offer?”
“You don’t need a new body. We’ll get this one fixed up and it will be as good as new.”
She offered me a small smile before she started to shake and turned translucent white. Christ on a bike, I hoped the doctor got here soon.
“Let me get the window.” I shut the window in her bedroom, turned the heating thermostat down in her hallway, and then opened a couple of other windows in the flat to get some air circulating. How long had she been like this?
“Have you had some paracetamol?” I asked.
“Can’t keep anything down.”
I took her hand between mine as she lay against the pillows. “Sushi,” she said.
I was pretty sure a snack of raw fish was the last thing she needed. “Maybe later.”
“No.” She moaned and hitched up her legs, like I was a bucket of slime she was trying to avoid.
“Let’s wait and see if the doctor thinks sushi is a good idea.”
Before she could make any more sushi demands, the buzzer went. I let the doctor up.
“She’s in here,” I said, and led him into the bedroom. “I got here an hour or so ago and she fainted. I got her to sip some water but she threw it up.”
“You’re her boyfriend?” he asked.
“Fiancé,” I replied without thinking.
He set about taking her temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. “How long have you been feeling like this?” he asked.
“Hours,” she replied. “After the sushi.”
“You ate sushi?” he asked and she nodded. “Last night?”
Ohh, she’d been trying to tell me it was food poisoning.
“Late. Delivered about eleven.”
“Bad sushi is more common that you think,” the doctor said. “If it were up to me, no one should be allowed to serve takeaway raw fish. It’s too easy for it to go wrong.” He pulled out a telescopic drip stand from his bag and set up an IV. “You’re dehydrated. I’m going to give you some antibiotics as well. If you’re still vomiting in twelve hours, or you see blood in your stools, you’re going to need to go to hospital.” The doctor glanced at me and I nodded.