Page 70 of Homebound

Wyatt opens cabinet after cabinet, peering into the contents.

“Are you sure we don’t have a thermometer?” he huffs, blowing a strand loose from the bun at his neck. “I want to check her temperature.”

I yank open one of the kitchen drawers, scanning the clutter. I’m not sure how to help, but I’ll do what I can. “The only thing we’ve got is a meat thermometer, and sticking it up her bum would be messy and sharp, so that’s not gonna work.”

Wyatt’s lips twitch like he wants to smile, but ultimately, they stay rooted in a worried twist. He walks around the kitchen counter, bringing his daughter to me. “How hot does she feel to you? Think it’s over a hundred?”

I swipe a hand over her forehead, warmth emanating from her flushed skin. I feel so bad for her, and I hate that there’s nothing I can do. The sweet little devil leans into my palm, a mess of flushed gold, and my heart constricts.

“Yeah, she’s warm, but she doesn’t feel too hot.” I realize that’s an unhelpful statement after I say it, so I add, “Want me to see if we've got some aspirin?”

“No!” Wyatt shouts, making me jump a bit.

“Okay, whoa,” I say, holding up my hands. “I didn’t realize you felt that strongly about aspirin.”

He shakes his head, bouncing Vi gently, who must not be feeling good because she didn’t even get fussy at that noise. “Sorry. It’s not that. It’s just that you can’t give kids aspirin. It’s one of the things that can kill them, apparently, like everything else in this world, according to the internet.”

My mouth gapes. “Aspirin kills children? They should put a warning label on the bottle.”

“That’s what I said,” he chuckles, but his laughter dies a quick death.

“Okay, got it. No aspirin. I can search for some infant’s Tylenol if you want?”

“No, it’s fine. I already checked all the cabinets.” He mutters a curse. “I can’t believe I forgot to get infant’s Tylenol. It’s like I always run out of things when I need it. I’m such a shitty dad.”

“Hey, listen to me.” I grab his cheeks. “There’s not a chance in hell I’m letting you think that for a second. You’re not a shitty dad. You’re a great dad who forgot to write down one item on his grocery list. Don’t beat yourself up over this.”

That crease between his brows smoothes, but he still watches his daughter with concerned eyes.

He carefully brushes her damp hair from her fevered brow. “I don’t know. Should I take her to the doctor? Wait, never mind. They aren’t open. Maybe we need to go to the emergency room?”

I find his arm with my hand, trying to offer some comfort even though comforting people isn’t my strong suit. But I want to be that person for him. “Let’s listen to your parents and put her to bed. She needs rest, and if she’s still burning up in the morning, we’ll take her to a doctor.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he whispers, pulling her closer, lips lingering on her sweaty forehead. “I just hate feeling helpless when it comes to her. Sometimes, I don’t know if I can do this.”

I brush Vi’s warm back, rubbing circles to give her more comfort. “Do what?”

“Be everything she needs.”

His voice sounds tattered, and I want to make it shiny again, so I place my hand on his cheek. “You don’t need to be everything she needs. You just need to be there when she needs you.”

He pinches his eyes closed, and then murmurs a soft, “Thank you.”

“I haven’t done anything,” I say, stroking my thumb on his stubble.

“You’re here when I need you. That’s enough.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s a Cancer, so he always goes quiet when he’s exceptionally stressed, but we don’t need words to communicate. We’ve got our own language full of deconstructed touches and looks that we’ve been speaking for years.

The way he’s gazing at me combined with the way I’m holding him feels like more, and I need to think about this before I dive into anything with him. Being with him also means being with his little girl, and I need to make sure I’m ready for that. Yeah, I’ve always wanted to be a mom, but it’s still a massive commitment.

I pull back, letting my hand drop, but I still want to do something to help. “Want me to go over to my dad’s and see if he has a thermometer?”

Wyatt perks up, but then his shoulders slump. “No. You’ve been drinking, so I don’t want you driving.”

“I can walk, and it’s less than a half mile from the barn.” I head to the red front door. “You cuddle up with our girl. I’ll be right back.”

He works his jaw, and the muscles tighten as he seems to wrestle with his decision. I tug on my boots, not giving him an option. Wyatt will put everyone else before himself, so I know he doesn’t want me walking alone almost as much as he wants to know his daughter’s temperature.