Whatever Dane said next, Willow didn't hear it. But Coach leaned a set of crutches against the tailgate and then stormed off toward the apartment. And then absolutely nothing at all happened for a few minutes. When Dane's coach reappeared, Willow made herself back away from the window. She stared, sightlessly, at her shopping list until low voices receded slowly past her door. Then she hopped back over to the window for one glimpse of Dane leaning heavily on his coach, hopping slowly along on one foot toward the apartment. His head was down, his shoulders bent.
He looked beaten.
Sixteen
Two more days passed before Willow saw either Dane or Coach. She worked extra hours at the insurance agency, and she met Callie for yoga. The pregnancy began to announce itself in a few subtle ways. She was suddenly exhausted all the time, falling into bed at nine o'clock and sleeping like the dead.
Then one morning, as Willow was just about to climb into her truck to go to work, Coach had come outside to speak to her.
"Morning," she said, her keys in her hand.
"Good morning," he echoed, an apologetic look on his face. "I was hoping I could ask you a little favor."
"Sure," she said, shifting from foot to foot. "I should have already asked if you two had everything you need."
"I've got him on the pull-out sofa," Coach said. "It's fine. But today I'm supposed to drive up to the Burke Mountain School for a meeting. Would you mind just putting your head in this afternoon, asking him if he needs anything? I never did get around to getting a landline put in," he said. "But I think I should."
Willow swallowed. "Sure. I can do that."
"He looks a little out of it this morning. I just worry that he'll fall or something. Shit. Don't tell him I said that."
"Um, okay," Willow had agreed. "If you need me to."
"I'd feel better if somebody checked on him. And I'm sure he'll be happy to see a face that isn't mine."
Don't bet on it, Willow thought. At least it settled one question she'd had on her mind-Coach clearly had no clue about her pregnancy and Dane's harsh opinion of it. "It would be my pleasure," she lied.
* * *
A couple of hours later, Willow found herself tapping lightly on the apartment's door. When nobody answered, she knocked again.
She heard only silence from inside. Given their recent fiery conversation, she knew full well that he wouldn't want anything to do with her. But what if he had fallen down?
Willow turned the knob and pushed the door open. She was startled to see Dane's eyes trained on her from where he lay on the pull-out couch. His expression was unreadable. She stepped all the way in and closed the door behind her. "Hi," she said with caution. The way he stared at her was unnerving. "Coach asked me to make sure you have everything you need."
He closed his eyes for a second, and then opened them. Today they were the color of a stormy sea. "You're not real," he said, his voice hoarse.
The hair stood up on the back of Willow's neck. "Sorry?"
He swallowed thickly. "You're not here," he said.
"Dane?" she took a couple of steps closer. His lips looked unnaturally dry and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Tentatively, she reached down and put her hand on his brow. "Oh, my God." He was burning up.
His big arm came up off the bed then, clamping down on her hand, pinning her hand to his head. "Not supposed to do this," he said.
"Do what?" she whispered, her mind reeling. She had to call someone. His fever must be off the charts.
"Touch her," he said. "Not allowed." He folded his big hand over hers and held on.
"Dane," she whispered, her heart racing. Willow slipped her hand out from under his. "I have to make a phone call," she said.
But Dane wasn't having it. With surprising speed, he grabbed her other hand instead. "No." His fingers around hers were hot and dry. His blue eyes stared up at her, vulnerable.
"Dane," she said firmly. "Let me make the call, and I'll come back."
In answer, he only held on tighter. She could probably just wrench her hand away, but she was afraid of his reaction. If he got upset and began flailing around, what would happen? Would a feverish person be mindful of his own broken knee?
She would try reverse psychology. Willow sat on the edge of the bed and put her free hand onto his, which gripped her. "I'm not going anywhere."
He squeezed her hands as his eyes fluttered closed. Willow waited a minute or so, wondering how she'd gotten herself involved. She would call Coach first. If he didn't answer, she'd call Callie. Dane's eyes didn't open again, so Willow counted to ten and then tried to slip her hands out of his.
"No," he said, holding on, his eyes still shut.
Willow sighed. She looked down at his big hand wrapped around hers. In her dreams, he came to her, these hands reaching out to hold her, to apologize. But the only version of Dane who wanted her nearby was the one rendered temporarily insane by fever. "Dane," she tried. "I thought you weren't supposed to touch me."
His eyes flew open and then fluttered closed again. "Not real," he said with a sigh. "S'okay."
"Good to know." Willow listened to the old clock on the wall tick and wondered what she should do.
"Can't have you," he whispered. His face creased with pain. "Not ever."
Her neck prickled again. "Why?" she whispered. Or maybe she just thought the word. And maybe he didn't even know what he was saying.
Why did everything have to be such a tangled mess?
Willow watched his face. His jaw relaxed, his forehead became smooth. With his face peaceful, he reminded her of a Renaissance painting-all masculine lines and draped fabric. His chest rose and fell under the sheet. After a few more minutes, his grasp on her hand went slack. She slipped away, tiptoed for the door and ran back to her house.
* * *
Coach did not answer his phone, which was hardly surprising. She had only a vague idea of where Burke was, but she knew it was in northern Vermont, where the mobile phone coverage was even spottier than it was here.
Tracking Callie down was something that often took time. So Willow called the main hospital number and asked them to page her. "Is this an emergency?" the receptionist asked.
"As a matter of fact, it is."
Willow's phone rang a few minutes later. "What's the matter?" Callie asked, breathless. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," Willow said. "But Dane has a high fever."
"How high?"
"No idea," Willow sighed. "But Coach asked me to check on him, and his forehead is like a radiator. Also, he says I'm not real."
"Crap," Callie said. "Postsurgical infections can be nasty. I don't suppose you looked at the incision?"
"No," Willow said. "I called you instead."
There was a silence while her friend thought it through. "Of course you can't move him. He can't crutch out to the car like that, if he's insensible and thinks you're his dead aunt Zelda."
"Trust me, he's not getting up to go anywhere."
"I think you have to call 9-1-1, Willow. If he has a staph infection, it could kill him. If your gut says his fever is high … "
"It is. I always thought ‘burning up with fever' was a cliché. I don't anymore."
"Okay. Then put him on a bus and send him our way."
* * *
Willow called 9-1-1 and asked them to send an ambulance. Then she left a message for Coach. Finally, she carried her cordless phone back to the apartment, having no idea whether or not it would work back there. When she opened the door, Dane's eyes were still closed, but he was trembling.
She went into the little bathroom and wet the hand towel with cold water. After wringing it out, she placed it over his forehead.
"Christ," he said suddenly.
"Sorry," she whispered.
His hands were shaking with fever, and it frightened her. She picked both of them up just to make it stop. Willow held his hands in her lap and watched the clock.
It took fifteen minutes until she heard tires in the driveway, and Willow reminded herself never to have a heart attack in rural Vermont. She ran to the door, waving to the two EMTs who would otherwise have knocked on her kitchen door.
"I'm Bill," the first EMT said. "How are we doing?" He was a guy about Willow's age. His partner was a woman with a Mohawk and a piercing through the middle of her nose.