Chapter 18
CHARLIE
The mountain of papers I now have to spend the weekend grading is every bit as mountainous as I’d been expecting.
Instead of a balance of instruction, discussion, and assignments while I was out sick, I’d emailed quarter-of-the-way thought-out instructions and a ridiculous number of worksheets to the school secretary.
Add in the fact that my eighth-grade science class already had a research paper due today, and the overflowing “assignments” box on my desk was enough to make me wish I’d called in sick one more day and waited until Monday to come back when I’d first stepped into my classroom this morning.
What I had not expected, and what has reversed that wish, was the reception I got from my students.
“Mr. Lancaster’s back!” My first period class, seventh grade math, had whispered and then cheered the fact as they’d trickled in through the door, like I’d been away for months rather than four days.
“Are you feeling better?” They’d wanted to know. More than one of them had admonished me with, “Don’t get sick again, okay?”
After I’d started to get worried, they’d all assured me that things had been “fine” with their sub.
“We just missed you!” Kyrie had called out from the back row, and the class had turned into a sea of nodding heads.
“You’re our favorite teacher!” Sam shouted—totally unnecessarily loudly, since he was in the front row—and again, everyone nodded in unison, this time noisy with agreement.
Not for the first time, but stronger than ever, a sick curl of guilt stirred in me, this time tinged with more than a little regret.
Principal Garland had been all smiles when he’d pulled me into his office last Monday afternoon.
“Mrs. Greene called me this morning,” he’d told me. “Wanted to let me know that she’s not coming back in September. She’s planning to stay at home with her baby. Which means we’ll be hiring for a fulltime, permanent middle school math and science teacher.”
The expectant tilt of his eyebrows left me in no uncertainty as to his meaning.
There’d been a moment’s fluttery excitement in the pit of my stomach.
Being here was—is—only a temporary thing. A break from my routine in the city that has given me the impossible by bringing Myles back into my life.
Temporary or not though, Riverside is getting under my skin. These kids are getting under my skin.
When I was here growing up, I’d been so focused on Myles that I hadn’t realized how deeply I’d loved this place beyond just him.
Don’t get me wrong, Myles being here and the miraculous way we’ve fallen back into our old friendship is the absolute best part of being here, but Myles isn’t all I love about it.
And now, there’s the whole extra layer of how invested I’m getting in my students. How I feel like I’m actually doing something that means something real by being here and teaching them.
If it weren’t for the fact that Myles is leaving as soon as his dad’s old house is fixed up to sell, I know I’d be flirting with the idea of staying a second year. Riverside without Myles though?
I hadn’t given myself time to think twice before I’d been shaking my head. I appreciated him telling me, I’d told Mr. Garland, but I wouldn’t be applying. At the end of the school year, I was going back to Seattle.
My phone buzzes on the top of my desk, snapping me out of the memory.
The smile that’s instantly plastered across my face is way too big as I snatch it up, a thing that makes me very glad it’s lunchtime and that my class is already gone.
Middle schoolers can smell gossip a mile away, and I know I looked totally too excited just now because I know exactly who’s texting.
Gemma’s headed out of town for a long weekend getaway with Rosa, so, unless something catastrophic happens, I know I won’t be hearing a peep from her until Monday.
Then she’ll spend the entire day blowing up my phone with every detail of their trip until I’m able to race home and call her so I hear all about it firsthand.
Other than my parents, who never text during school hours, the only other person I regularly text with is Myles.
Sure enough:
Myles: Hey, looks like that hike we were planning on is gonna have to wait for another weekend *disappointed face emoji* Guess who’s sick now
I’m already typing out a response, trying to scale back the over the top, could be read as a more-than-friendly string of sad-faced emojis and hearts and hugs I want to send him, when a new text pops up.
Myles: See what I’m doing here, Charlie? Texting you to tell you I’m sick. Like you should have done when you were sick?
I can’t help the quiet laugh I let out as I shake my head, deleting my too-mushy message.
Me: *tongue sticking out emoji* Well aren’t you just Mr. Perfect?
Yes, actually, he is. To me…
Me: Are you here at school?
Myles: Home. I left when I started feeling bad.
Me: I’m going shopping and bringing you things tonight. Just so you know.
Me: Do you still hate cough drops, or will you use them if I bring you some?
Me: And are strawberry popsicles still your favorite?
Myles: *eyeroll emoji* You don’t have to do that
Me: Don’t be like that. I would have been fine with what I had, you know.
Myles: Is that why you texted me 50 times telling me thank you?
Me: It wasn’t 50. And me thanking you doesn’t mean you had to do any of that for me.
The truth is, my eyes still feel a teensy bit teary just thinking about what I’d found in the bags Myles had handed me on Monday night when I’d refused, point blank, to let him in to put the groceries away for me.
Turns out of course that my refusal was all for nothing, now that he’s sick anyway—hopefully not from me, but just from the general fact that it seems like half the school has this new bug.
Myles had brought me way more than I could possibly need.
Multiple flavors of popsicles and seltzer.
Three boxes of tissues. Enough cans of soup (really amazingly delicious, nicest he could find soup, by the way) and boxes of crackers for a whole family of sick people.
Three kinds of cough drops, food for Cyril, and the list goes on from there.
What had really gotten me though as I’d unloaded the bags?
Everything (minus Cyril’s food of course) was vegan.
He’d even gotten me a tub of vegan ice cream, which I know they don’t sell at the store down the road.
Seeing that ice cream meant he’d gone specially into town for me.
Over an hour of driving, plus shopping time, when he could have gotten most of this stuff (just probably not as nice of a version) five minutes down the road.
So yes, however many times I thanked him was totally justified.
Myles: Exactly
Myles: You don’t have to do anything for me
Me: Why did YOU do it then?
Myles: Because I wanted to
I’ve long since given up trying to sort out how much of the warm glow of happiness Myles saying things like that (not to mention doing things like what he did when I was sick) is down to the fact that I’m ridiculously in love with him, and how much is that he is, just like he always was, the best friend anyone could ever have.
(With Gemma as an exception of course, which doesn’t entirely count, since the two of us are far more like siblings and as likely to drive each other up the wall as anything else. Much as we love each other.)
Instead of trying to analyze or talk myself out of it, I tuck those simple words of his away with all the thousand others. His hugs… His smiles I’ve known have been meant just for me…
Me: …
Me: I’m waiting, Myles Marlow.
Me: Or do you want me to buy you the whole store like you did for me?
Myles: Strawberry’s still my favorite. And cough drops are still disgusting
Myles: If you have some left though, I’ll take them *sad face emoji*
Me: I’ll be there as soon as I can.
“Want to know the good thing about you getting sick after me?” I ask the moment Myles opens his front door, five long hours later. “I don’t have to stay outside.”
He looks like he’s going to try to argue with me, but I shoo him with my hand, smooshing in past him before he gets the chance.
“I’ve already had it, so it’s not like you’re going to make me sick,” I call back from the kitchen as I set a bag of groceries on his counter.
“Which means I’m here for the evening to keep you company and take care of you.
If,” I can’t help adding, stepping back out into the living room where I can check the expression on his face, because ohmigod, is this coming off as more than just a friend thing? “If you want me to?”
“I should tell you I don’t.” He tries to laugh, but it comes out hoarse and painful sounding. “Honestly though? I’d love it. Just the part where you stay and keep me company. You don’t have to take care of me.”
He reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck, and it has to be because he’s sick and probably has a fever, but did his cheeks go just the littlest bit pinker just now?
“Too bad,” I grin at him, already on my way back out the door. “Go lie down and put on a movie or something while I grab the rest of what I’ve brought from the car.”
“I still can’t believe you actually made me soup,” Myles half whispers, half croaks as I take the empty bowl from him, setting it on the coffee table in front of us next to mine. I’ll run them to the kitchen to wash later. “I just brought you canned stuff.”
“My kitchen isn’t a construction zone,” I shrug at him, the familiar worry that I’ve given away too much gnawing at me.
Maybe canned soup would have been a more friend-level thing to bring than homemade, but it’s too late now…
And then, to change the subject, “Do you want me to put on another movie, or are you ready for bed? I can go…”
“It’s not even eight yet.” He shakes his head, letting out a half laugh, half cough. “Just because I’m sick doesn’t mean I’m eighty.”
“Which is why you almost fell asleep like three times during the movie we watched before we ate?”
“I’d throw this at you if my head didn’t feel like it was going to explode every time I move,” he mumbles, half lifting a throw pillow in my direction.
“Very threatening.” I roll my eyes to cover how very much I want to reach out and pull him down into my lap so I can run my hands through his hair to try to soothe his headache.
Like always, knowing that he’s hurting starts that ache in my chest. The feeling that demands I make him better.
“Can you drink some more water though? And when did you last take Tylenol?”
“Has anyone ever told you how freaking bossy you are?” He halfheartedly flops the throw pillow in my direction.
“You,” I push the pillow back toward him in case he wants it. “Probably a million times when we were kids. Now drink up.” I shove his half-full glass into his hand, shaking my head and arching my eyebrows when he tries to pass it back to me after only one small sip.
It takes Myles a whole ten minutes of our new movie to fall fast asleep. Though, in his defense, he did make it past eight o’clock. By precisely four minutes.
After another ten minutes of trying to decide whether I should wake him up and tell him to go lie down in his bed or just let him sleep here on the sofa for the night, I’ve finally made up my mind to leave him here.
His bedroom is up on the second floor, and if he stays down here, he has easier access to food and more water when he wakes up.
Until I come back to check on him in the morning, of course.
I’m just about to sneak away so I can grab him a fresh glass of water and track down a blanket for him so he won’t get cold, when he shifts in his sleep, slumping to the side against me so that his head comes to rest on my shoulder.
His cheek feels fever-hot through the fabric of my shirt, and his body is heavy and limp against mine.
My heart pounds, hard and heavy, in my chest. Except for the few too-brief (for me) hugs we’ve shared, it’s been ten and a half years since I’ve felt his body against mine like this.
Just like before—the time when we ended up smushed against each other when we’d watched the movie with Gemma and Ellie and Alex, and the night when he was hurt and he’d let me hold him in my bed—his closeness means nothing but friendship.
And his friendship? It’s everything to me.
Except for what it isn’t.
My heart squeezes, turning its thrilled pounding to a steady, well-worn ache.
I want to wrap my arm around him and pull his head into my lap.
I want to stroke my fingers through his slightly sweaty hair and kiss his forehead and stay with him until he wakes up.
I want so much more than what I can show him as his friend.
Ohmigod, I have to leave—
I can’t be here.
I can’t do this to myself.
Moving as carefully as I can, I scoot to the side, trying to transfer his head from my shoulder back onto the cushions behind us. I make it almost completely away from his warm, heavy body before he stirs.
Panic and embarrassment and the fear that he’ll think I was the one that cuddled up to him flash through me, and I scoot quickly to the side, but I’m not quick enough. Before I can escape, Myles’s hand is closing around my wrist and, ohmigod, he’s tugging me back toward him.
“Stay.” He barely mumbles the word and the tug he gives me isn’t nearly enough to actually move me closer back toward him, but I go anyway, scooching right back up against him, every bit as close as before.
His head winds up on my chest this time, his hand still trapping my wrist. The upper part of his body is leaning practically into my lap.
My heart’s going crazy, right under where his cheek is resting.
Only…
This doesn’t mean what I want it to mean.
He’s just sick.
Half asleep.
I’m warm. He’s probably feeling cold from his fever.
He’s not thinking.
Doesn’t mean anything.
Except right now, I’m not sure anything has ever meant more to me than this.