How to Ruin a Wedding(53)

And I have no right to be.

Not just because this whole thing with Anders is a lie, though that’s reason enough. But because sometimes, in a small voice, I question if down the line, I deserve a place beside anyone at all.

I’ve spent most of my life being the one who held everything together. My value was always tied to what I could do for someone else. That was my role: the responsible one, the strong one, the provider. And I was good at it.

But I’ve accomplished so little lately, at least by the standards I set for myself. I’m not sure I even have anything worth sharing with someone else, let alone this family who cares for each other deeply and easily and has no financial struggles of their own.

So when Bethany looks at me like I’m the kind of woman her son deserves, when Olive and Valerie smile at me like I belong here, it does something to me. Something warm and scary.

Because under different circumstances, I would want to accept their acceptance of me.

I want to believe that kindness like this could be meant for me, that I’m worth it, but what do I have to show for it? What about me is worthy of being loved when my life is such a mess? When I’m such a current mess.

I come up with nothing, and I shut the box gently.





17.


Bethany and Olive honk the horn as they drive off, leaving me alone when I reach the front door of Anders’s place. I let myself in with the key he gave me, the necklace hanging around my neck, heavy as a weight, and head to the living room.

When he hears me approach, Anders attempts to get up from the long corner of the couch but stops midway, pressing his hand over his face. “You’re back,” he says, his voice strained.

My pace quickens, and I drop my gift bag on the coffee table and stand by him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he says, removing his hands from his face to reveal dark, thick bags under his eyes. His hair is soaked at the tips, as if he just took a shower, but when I see moisture at the center of his shirt and the sides of his brow, I realize it’s sweat.

Immediately, I place my hand on his forehead and neck—he’s burning.

“Oh my God.” I grip his face in my hands. “You have a fever.”

“It’s not too bad,” he says with a strained smile.

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have picked something up for you.” I keep moving my hand around his face, looking for a cool spot, but he’s hot everywhere.

“At first I thought maybe I was just hungover, but after a while, I just felt worse. I’m better now, I swear.”

“Liar.” I let him go and head to the fridge. After a quick scan of the shelves, I find there’s nothing to aid with a fever. I scour through the cabinets next, when he appears beside me, laying a shaky hand on my arm.

“I’m fine, I promise. Tell me about your day?”

“You can barely stand straight,” I say, and even I hear the anger in my voice. I’m not sure why that’s the emotion choosing to appear, but it makes me move with purpose and speed. I grab his arm and drag him to his room.

“Lucinda,” he says, his eyes barely open.

“Lie down.” I shove him, and I know he’s sick because he’s usually a rock. At my force, he plops right onto the bed. “Have you eaten? Drunk? Taken any medicine?”

“I’m—”

“Say you’re fine one more time and I’ll choke you out, I swear to God.”

He laughs, then coughs, and I rush to the kitchen to bring him a cup of water. When I’m back, he’s leaning on the headboard. After he takes a few sips, I ask him again what he’s had today.

“I can’t keep anything down, so don’t make me anything.” He drops the glass on the bedside table. “And I took some pain medicine for the headaches.”

“How long ago?”

He pauses, like he can’t remember.

“I’m taking your car,” I say, “and getting some things from the corner store. Do not tell me not to, and you better be in this exact same position when I get back or the choke out happens—and I promise you, I will do it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My time at the store is brief and efficient. With Taina being a sickly kid, I know exactly what to look for in each aisle and what mixtures of medicine combat all symptoms without causing negative reactions. Though my time in his car is confusing—there are way too many buttons, and everything looks a lot farther from the vehicle when you’re inside, and there’s a small scratch from a curb I’ll have to apologize for later.

For now, I let myself back in and find Anders exactly how I left him.

“Good boy,” I say, dropping one of my plastic bags on the bed. I pull out an energy drink for the electrolytes and start popping open the pills, gathering the mix in my palm. “Take this.” I hold the pills and the drink toward him.

“I don’t want to put you out,” he says.

And all I can think of is little baby Anders, cleaning up after himself, making barely a sound, locking himself away in his room, fearful of being a bother.

“All I want is to make you feel better,” I say, my brows pulling together.

He holds my gaze a moment, softening despite his rising fever, before taking the pills. How many times was he sick and suffered through it without the comfort of a loved one? Just lying in bed in pain, waiting for it to pass?