In about a day and a half, I started to believe him. By Christmas Eve, I was sure he meant it. No man would have stuck around through the rest of that week, no matter what he claimed, if there hadn’t been supernatural forces compelling him to stay.
I got sick about twelve hours after helping Kara and Owen with the delivery. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, it was the stomach flu instead of the chicken pox. It was a very small gift from the universe, maybe. I would have been mad about it but I was too busy hugging the commode and barfing up my lungs.
And Jameson held my hair back, gave me a cool washcloth to wipe my face, and made sure there was fresh mouthwash and toothpaste on the vanity each time. He made more soup and made another trip out into the snow for sports drink and jello, after a loud, Russian argument with Sasha that I didn’t understand, and made sure I stayed hydrated.
At least until he got sick.
He was in the middle of building a nest of blankets and pillows for me on the couch in the empty apartment’s living room when he got sweaty and pale, and about ten minutes later, he occupied the extra bathroom like he meant to claim it in the name of England. I shouldn’t have laughed, but it made me feel a little better that he was miserable, too. At least I did my best to keep it under wraps, but when Kara face called me so I could see the baby — looking as fat and pink as a Christmas ham — she heard Jameson moaning pitifully and she cackled hard enough the baby woke up.
She grinned and bounced the little guy, who grumbled and whimpered until his papa rushed up to croon at him. Kara rolled her eyes as Owen, stars in his eyes, cradled his son to his shoulder and wandered away. “He’s impossible. Little Felix will never actually develop his lungs because Owen won’t put him down for more than a few seconds to let him cry.”
I was too tired and sweaty to be jealous. “That’s the name you picked out? Not naming the little porker after your brother?”
“He tried to convince me to,” Kara said. She laughed, glancing over her shoulder as Owen paced behind her and whispered to the baby. “But he and Owen don’t see eye-to-eye on, well, anything. So firstborn wasn’t going to be a Nick. Maybe the third or fourth one.”
“Over my dead body,” Owen muttered, then went back to pretending he wasn’t paying attention.
“He’s not that bad,” Kara said.
“Yes he is.” I cleared my throat and pretended I hadn’t spoken when my best friend glared at me through the phone. My stomach rumbled in warning and I had to wait a second to make sure I wasn’t going to projectile vomit and ruin the second phone in as many days. Jameson put my first one in rice in the oven but the hot tub had done more damage than rice could fix. “So yeah. Jameson is sick, I’m sick, but you’re all looking pretty fucking chipper.”
“It’ll wear off by Christmas,” she said with a grin. “You’ll be fine. It was a pretty good diet, all things considered.”
“You also had a baby,” I said. “That helps with the scale. Breastfeeding will do the rest.”
“Good.” Kara exhaled and leaned against an enormous pillow. She still looked tired, as any new mama did, but she had more color in her cheeks and a light in her eyes that made me want to cry. “How are you doing, babe? Other than the stomach flu. There was a lot that happened there.”
I glanced over at the closed door to the bathroom, wondering if Jameson could over-hear. “I’m okay, other than the flu. He’s been taking care of me.”
Her eyebrows arched.
I took a deep breath and lowered my voice until I doubted she could hear it, either. “The night you gave birth, he told me a lot of things. Like, a lot.”
“Things?” She got up and walked away from Owen, who muttered that she’d just have to tell him the gossip later. “Like what?”
“That he likes me,” I said. I rubbed my forehead and tried to think through the feverish fog in my brain. Why did the last week feel completely surreal? It had to have been a movie we watched, and I fell asleep in the middle of, and then dreamed a bunch of crazy shit. “That he thinks I’m his soul-mate or something, and that he’s going to follow me west or stay here with me or get an apartment or building or something. It all kind of blurred together, but the end of it was he thinks we’re supposed to be together and he’ll do anything — or so he says — to be with me. And the girls.”
Kara’s jaw went slack. “He said soul mate?”
“Something like that. He said it was like with you and Owen.” I shook my head, rubbing my eyes. I felt like death warmed over, but at least the girls had their chicken pox somewhere else. Apparently they’d passed the feverish and itchy stage to just the itchy and rambunctious stage, so it was a good thing someone with more energy was looking after them. “But I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about, Kara.”
“I can try to explain,” she said slowly. She glanced back at where Owen sang to the baby, and her expression softened. “Honestly, if that’s what’s going on… I’m really happy for you.”
I wished everyone would stop acting like I was part of whatever weird nonsense they all seemed to believe in. “Soul mates aren’t real, Kara. I just need to understand what kind of game he’s playing. Is it hyperbole? Does he actually believe it and it’s a delusion of some kind? What do I have to be afraid of here?”
“The only thing you have to fear is being happy,” she said. “If Jameson said ‘mate,’ then I have no doubt that he would literally walk through a blizzard for you and your girls. He’d do anything to make you happy. Take it as slowly as you want. Date the man, test him, challenge him, get your own shit figured out. Find a job here and a place to live, get your feet under you. I have every confidence that Jameson will be there every step of the way to make things easier.”
I didn’t know how I could believe her. How could I risk it? My guts clenched and I couldn’t tell if it was the flu or fear that she spoke the truth and I was too much of a coward to take the risk. I breathed through my nose to maybe keep my stomach in place. “Uh, I think I need to…”
“Right. Go. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll send Owen.” She grinned and waved, and I made sure the phone was screen-down on the table as I lunged for the stock pot next to the couch that had been pressed into service as a trashcan.
I was still laying on the couch, moaning in misery, when Jameson reappeared with ginger ale, crackers, and a warm shoulder to lean against. Even if he was sweaty and clammy, too, at least the steady thump-thump-thump of his heart gave me an anchor as I drifted in a fever haze. Maybe he meant it. Maybe he really wanted to stick around.