The fever came on fast. One minute I was fine. The next I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled.
Maxwell found me on the bathroom floor. I'd been trying to reach the medicine cabinet. The tiles were cold against my cheek.
"Jesus," he said. He got his arms under me. Lifted me. "You're burning up."
He put me in bed. Piled blankets on top of me even though I was already sweating through my shirt. The room kept tilting. I closed my eyes but that made it worse.
"I'm calling the doctor," he said.
I heard him in the hallway. His voice low and urgent. When he came back he had a thermometer.
"103.4," he said. His face was tight. "Dr. Chen said to monitor it. If it goes higher we go to the ER."
He brought me water. Tylenol. A cold washcloth for my forehead. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hand on my shoulder.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said.
I believed him.
For three hours, he stayed. He changed the washcloth when it got warm. He held the glass while I drank. He checked my temperature every thirty minutes.
Then his phone rang.
I watched him look at the screen. Watched his whole body go tense.
He answered it. "Fallon? What's wrong?"
I couldn't hear her voice. Just Maxwell's responses.
"Okay. Okay, slow down. What did you take?"
A pause.
"No, don't do that. I'm coming right now."
He stood up. Started looking for his keys.
I tried to sit up. The room spun. "Maxwell."
He turned. His face was pale. "Fallon took pills. She's—she says she can't do this anymore. She needs me there."
"I need you here," I said. My voice came out hoarse. Weak.
"I know." He found his keys on the dresser. "But she's talking about killing herself, Serenity. I can't—I have to go."
"You promised," I said. "You said you weren't going anywhere."
He stopped in the doorway. His hand on the frame. For one second I thought he might stay.
"I'll be back soon," he said.
Then he was gone.
I lay there listening to his footsteps fade. Heard the front door open and close. Heard the silence that came after.
The fever climbed. I watched the numbers on the clock change. 8:47. 9:23. 10:05.
I got up once to use the bathroom. Had to hold onto the wall the whole way. My legs shook. When I looked in the mirror my face was gray.
I got back into bed. Pulled the blankets up. Stared at the ceiling.
Midnight came. Then one. Then two.
The fever broke around three in the morning. The sheets were soaked. My hair stuck to my neck. But the shaking stopped. The room stopped tilting.
I got up. Changed my shirt. Drank water from the bathroom tap.
When I came back to bed, I didn't lie down. I just sat there in the dark.
Maxwell came home at dawn. I heard him trying to be quiet. Heard him take off his shoes in the hallway. Heard him ease the bedroom door open.
He stood there for a moment. Looking at me sitting up in bed.
"You're awake," he said.
"Yes."
He came closer. Sat on the edge of the bed. "How do you feel?"
"Better."
"Good." He rubbed his face. He looked exhausted. "Fallon's okay. It was—it was a cry for help. She didn't actually take anything. She just needed someone to talk her down."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know the timing was terrible. But she was in a really dark place. I couldn't leave her alone."
"You left me alone," I said quietly.
His jaw tightened. "That's not fair. You had a fever. She was suicidal."
"I had pneumonia."
"You're fine now."
I looked at him. At the man who'd carried me to bed six hours ago. Who'd promised he wasn't going anywhere.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm fine."
He got into bed. Pulled the covers over himself. Within minutes his breathing slowed. He was asleep.
I lay down beside him. Stared at the ceiling.
I thought about the promise he'd made ten years ago. The one at my hospital bedside. *I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you.*
I thought about the Iceland trip. The anniversary dinner. The Hamptons weekend. The nights I'd waited alone.
I thought about Fallon's pills that weren't really pills. Her crises that always came at exactly the right time.
I thought about my fever breaking in an empty room.
The sun came up. Light crept across the floor.
Maxwell's arm was heavy across my waist. His breath warm on my neck.
I didn't move. I just lay there and did the math.
Ten years. One hundred twenty months. Three thousand six hundred fifty days.
I'd given him all of them.
He'd given me back nothing I could hold.
I got up. Quiet. Careful not to wake him.
I went to the kitchen. Made coffee. Sat at the table and watched Manhattan wake up outside the window.
People on their way to work. Taxis in traffic. The world moving forward like it always did.
I pressed my thumb against the scar on my right hand. The place where my ring finger used to be.
I'd lost it pulling him from a car wreck. I'd lost ten years being his wife. I'd lost my chance to be a mother.
I was done losing things.
I sat there until the coffee went cold. Until the sun was high and bright.
Maxwell came out around nine. Hair messy. Still in yesterday's clothes.
"Hey," he said. He kissed the top of my head. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," I said.
He poured himself coffee. Leaned against the counter.
"I'm really sorry about last night," he said. "I know it wasn't ideal."
I looked at him. At the guilt on his face. The guilt that would fade by lunchtime. The guilt that never changed anything.
"It's okay," I said.
But it wasn't.
And I was done pretending it was.
