Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
“You have until tomorrow morning to ditch this fever or you’re going to the doctor,” I assured him.
“Fine.”
“And I’m going with you,” I announced, because we both knew he’d go to work and accidentally forget what he was supposed to be doing. He’d done that on more than one occasion. “I don’t trust you.”
“Baybe I don’t trust you,” he said indignantly, which was hard to pull off with a stuffy nose. He’d lost the use of the letter M, as well as some others.
“I don’t care. I’m going.”
“I don’t deed you to go to the doctor with be. I’m perfectly capable of getting there all by byself.”
I pursed my lips so I wouldn’t smile.
“Go away and let be die,” he moaned, flipping over on his stomach and pulling the covers over his head.
The next morning, on day two, at Sam’s doctor’s office, the bronchitis diagnosis was confirmed. He was given a steroid shot there and then, and we had to pick up more meds that were called in. He had more steroids, the ones you have to take in descending order over five days, plus an antibiotic, as well as something for his cough and stuffed-up nose.
He blamed me. I had somehow willed this into being.
“I don’t ever have a sunny fuckin’ disposition,” he growled at me when I went upstairs to turn on the vaporizer and the diffuser. “And I hate the way that one spells.”
“You can’t smell anything.”
“Yes, I can,” he assured me defiantly.
The hell he could. “Why are you reading my column?” I asked to divert his attention from the diffuser that was puffing out eucalyptus and peppermint, which was the main reason he would, in fact, be able to breathe again soon.
“Because I’b bored and you left your laptop open.”
“I see.”
“Again I say, I dever have a sunny disposition.”
I would have agreed at the moment.
“You have to take that part out. I don’t want your readers to think I’m dice.”
“No, dear,” I said, leaning over to check his head that was still cool to the touch. “Are you cold?” I asked gently, trying not to smile over how adorable he looked swaddled up in a blanket, head, body, only his bloodshot slate-blue eyes, narrowed to slits, regarding me.
“Do I look cold?” he deadpanned, one golden-brown eyebrow arching in question.
“It was a dumb question,” I said, trying not to smile.
“Yeah, it was dub,” he agreed, sinking down in the bed and turning on the TV.
Apparently, I was dismissed, and I left after giving him a kiss that he grumbled over.
On the third day, his stomach was iffy from all the meds, his body ached, he got dizzy whenever he got up, and he was loopy. When I came upstairs, Hannah was cleaning my laptop with alcohol wipes and her father was back under the blankets.
“What happened?” I asked, looking at her.
“He was touching this and getting his cooties all over it.”
“I like his cooties,” I told her.
“See,” Sam told his daughter, giving her a smirk for good measure.
“Oh yeah? Do you want bronchitis too?” she snapped at me.
“He’s been on antibiotics for more than twenty-four hours, sweetie, so he’s no longer contagious in the least.”
She continued to clean the laptop and then suddenly gasped.
“What?”
“Dad is answering your email for you.”
“What email?”
“The Dear Jory questions.”
I groaned and glanced over at Sam, who was concentrating hard on the TV.
“This woman asked you: my husband and I just moved to be near his daughter and her children. We don’t have children together, and I never had any of my own. I want his daughter and me to get along, so I was going to surprise her by showing up at the dance recital that her daughters are performing in. Should I do that, and have you ever been to one?”
“And what was your father’s response?” I chuckled.
“He said: don’t go, save yourself. My daughter danced when she was younger, and thank God she gave it up for martial arts because I nearly died of boredom. Dance recitals are a chaotic warzone of glitter and tulle, and you should stay away at all costs. Your daughter-in-law probably likes you more than you think if she didn’t invite you. Consider yourself lucky.”
I snorted. “I’ll just have to let people know it was your father and not––”
“Ohmygod, Pa, he’s been answering these all day,” she said, horrified. “Dear Jory, my husband wants kids, but I’m not ready. He says since I told him I want them someday, which I do, what’s wrong with now? And if I loved him, I would. I don’t want to lose him, but I’m not sure what to do.”
“And your father said?”
“He said, if you don’t want kids right now, don’t. Have them when you know you’re ready. If your husband loved you, he wouldn’t be trying to manipulate your feelings. He sounds like a douche. You can do better.”