A Murderer's Guide to Fake Dating

13. it's a game of ping-pong

"I'm taking that," Jack murmurs into my ear, snatching my phone away when I'm momentarily distracted. 

"Wait, that's not fair!" I argue, lunging for his outstretched arm. "I was distracted." 

I try to pry my phone away, but Jack's fingers are practically glued to it. "Careful," I warn. "I might vomit on you." 

Jack releases my phone reluctantly. "Please don't," says Jack, and I smile, triumphant. "Now can you get off me?" 

I forget I'm in a somewhat intimate pose with Jack and I instantly spring up. "Sorry," I say, tripping over the syllables. Jack raises an eyebrow at my clumsiness, as I almost trip over a stray pillow. "What? It's not like I wanted to be in that pose with you." 

"Of course not," Jack says in disgust. "But no need to be so defensive." 

"I'm not!" I say, my voice rising an octave. I wince, and Jack sends me a pointed look. 

"Right. Now, where were we? Oh right. You're supposed to be in bed." 

With a heavy sigh, I trudge back to bed and try to sleep. 

A couple of hours later, I am vomiting and it is disgusting. "It's okay," Jack tells me as I shudder into the toilet. "You're going to be alright." 

"But—your shoes," I say. 

I can tell it kills Jack a little when he says, "It's fine. It'll wash off." 

I crouch near the toilet and wait for the second volley of vomit. When it doesn't happen, I look at Jack. His voice almost sounds kind. "Do you need to..." 

"No," I whisper. 

"Let's get you into bed, then." 

I wake up a second time, with chills wracking my body. I lift off a cool towel from my forehead and instinctively call out Jack's name. He's sleeping beside me but stirs nevertheless when I call his name. "What's wrong?" he asks sleepily and for a moment, I forget I have a fever. 

Jack's hair looks more mussed than usual and it throws me off. "What?" Jack says, alarmed by my lack of response. "Do you need something?" 

I don't know why, but I'm fumbling for words. I think something terrible happened: the fever hijacked my brain and now I cannot speak in the presence of Jack. Then I realize it's because Jack is watching me with unguarded concern and the knowledge that he's concerned sends something rushing through my stomach. I curse softly. 

"Jack, please leave," I say quietly. Jack is unmoving. "You have to leave, Jack." 

Jack begins fussing over me, grabbing the towel and moving towards the kitchen sink. "Do you feel nauseous?" asks Jack, rapidly striding in my direction. "I can get you more medicine if you'd like. Is your forehead still burning?" 

He lifts a hand to check my temperature and before I realize what I'm doing, I smack his hand away. The smack reverberates. Jack stares at me, stunned. My cheek scorches. 

"I—" My throat is dry. "You have to leave." 

"What's wrong?" Jack asks kindly, and I'm dizzy when I pull myself out of bed. Jack reaches for me, but I shake my head. "Isla, talk to me." 

"Jack, I hate you," I say, but it comes out as a childish lie. "You know that." 

"What?" He is bewildered. "You're delirious with a fever." 

Probably, but I need him to leave before my fever-clogged brain makes me think that Jack actually cares about me. Because once I'm feeling better, Jack will act cold once more and it'll hurt.