For Better or Worse

A moment later, she was curled up beside him, and though he still felt like shit, if he had to be stuck in bed, it was much better to have a beautiful woman by your side, especially one sipping a decadent-smelling Italian roast that she’d stolen from your own stash.

“Did you take the pills?” she asked, studying him as she cupped both hands around her mug and took a sip.

He nodded. “Yes, Mom.”

“At least you’re not one of those idiot guys who think it’s tough and manly to rough it out without medicine.”

Josh said nothing as he took a sip of the tea. He hated tea but had to admit it did help the throat. A little.

“I’ve got nothing against modern medicine,” he said quietly.

But while modern medicine had quite literally saved his life, he wasn’t holding out hope that the aspirin she’d given him would do much more than maybe take the edge off his headache. Maybe.

For one God-awful moment, Josh almost gave in to the fear. He felt a lump in his throat that had nothing to do with his ailment and everything to do with the fact that he was frightened down to his very bones about what this illness could mean. He hadn’t had anything like this since . . . before.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Hey,” she said softly, putting a hand against his stomach. “I’m here.”

It’s exactly what he didn’t want. To need someone else. To take someone else down with him.

But for a moment, he let himself need her. Let himself take her hand in his and squeeze.

It’s just a cold, man. Get ahold of yourself.

But now he couldn’t stop his mind from going into overdrive, even as his body lay dormant. Potentially ignored warning signs flashed through his mind—had he not been more tired than usual over the past couple weeks? Going to bed earlier, sleeping in later, even taking the occasional nap after a lamer-than-usual session at the gym?

Fuck.

Josh pushed himself up into more of a seated position, desperate to think and talk about anything other than the fact that his body seemed to be turning on him.

“Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something,” he said, watching as Heather pulled her newly straightened hair into a sleek ponytail. He loved her curls, but this was nice, too. Hell, she could shave her head, and she’d still be stunning.

“What’s up?” she asked as she reached once more for her coffee on the nightstand, sitting cross-legged and shifting to face him.

“I spoke with Logan last night.”

“Okay?”

Josh held her gaze. “Why didn’t you tell me about the job offer?”

He kept his tone gentle—he didn’t want to start a fight.

But Heather didn’t even flinch as she met his gaze. “You haven’t exactly responded well anytime I’ve shown interest in your life beyond what the two of us have going on in the here and now.”

“What do you mean?” he asked slowly, even though he had a pretty good idea what she was talking about.

“I mean that I’m allowed to talk about a song you’re currently playing, but I’m not allowed to talk about what you want to do with that music, if anything. I’m allowed to talk about yesterday, but not two years ago. I’m allowed to talk about your history with Danica, but not your history with your past job. We can talk about tomorrow, but not next month.”

Josh opened his mouth to defend himself, but he realized he had nothing to say. Heather was dead-on. It was never fun having a mirror held up, but he couldn’t deny that she was right about him avoiding tough topics.

But while his choice not to talk about his past was a conscious one, it was unnerving to realize just how resistant he’d been to discussing his future, and not just with Heather.

He’d clammed up around Trevor. His mom. Jamie.

The pounding in his head increased, and he had a painful, gut-wrenching acknowledgment of why he avoided talking about his future.

He wasn’t at all sure that he was going to have one.

A wave of self-loathing rushed over him. He’d been telling himself for the past couple of years that he was living life to the fullest by not going back to work. By not sweating the small stuff, and not letting his weeks pass by in a mind-numbing nine-to-five grind.