Chapter 16 #2
Lukewarm, because anything else won’t help her fever.
I shut the door behind me. Not quick enough. Not slow enough either.
As soon as I tell her the bath is ready, she starts slipping off her sweatshirt. That’s when I bolt.
I wasn’t lying when I said this wasn’t a ploy to get her naked.
Sure, yeah, I wasn’t going into tonight thinking I’d get to see the sporty bralette she was wearing.
The way the spandex fabric stretches across her breasts, the dusty pink color light enough that you can see her brown nipples.
Or how when she breathes, her abs go taut, freckles kissing her skin like I wish I could.
Tonight, I thought would be like all the others. We’d meet on whatever she had planned this week. Watch or listen to a podcast, head to the rink to skate, or find an alternative form of movement.
Maybe I’d convince her to eat dinner with me, or watch this new show streaming online that I found and thought she’d like.
We’d run through whatever theoretical questions she assumes Zach would ask her on a first date because I know she probably has flash cards or some study material for it. As much as I hate the looming date, I still want her happy and confident.
I was lying when I said if I wanted her naked, I’d have her naked. I think I’ve wanted her naked since I was fourteen and realized what sex was. In those seven years, this is the closest I’ve ever been.
I tug the door closed and head to the kitchen.
I’m leaning against the counter, waiting for my mom to text me back.
Finally, she does.
Mom
*link attached*
Here is the recipe! I always prefer blending a cup or two of the vegetables with some broth, then adding it back into the pot while the noodles cook. It makes the soup creamier and more hearty.
Are you sick, honey?
No. Sutton’s had food poisoning for the past 48 hours.
Needs some nutrients.
Mom
Electrolytes will be good too. Does she have any?
How my mom knows I’m here, I don’t know. Motherly intuition, I suppose.
I check around the kitchen and don’t find any sports drinks or hydration packets. Before texting my mom back, I order a grocery delivery.
I got some.
Mom
Okay, that’s perfect, honey. Keep me updated on how she feels. I’ll let her mom know, she’s been trying to get a hold of her.
Slept all day.
Mom
You take such good care of her. I love you.
I love you, too.
The soup is on low when Sutton pads into the open concept living room-kitchen. They don’t have a dining room, only a bar with four counter-height stools.
She’s toweling off her hair. Scrunching up her curls repetitively. A bottle of product is balanced underneath her armpit as she walks in.
“Oh.” Sutton drapes her towel over the back of a chair. “I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I made—”
“Is that your mom’s chicken soup?” Color starts to return to her.
I nod and a wave of relaxation comes over her. Turning my back to her, I ladle two servings into the bowls I set out.
This soup was a staple for my childhood.
Whenever one of my sisters or I were sick, she’d make this soup.
We thought it was magic; whatever she put in it instantly healed us.
That was definitely a placebo effect, but the soup did help.
Filled with protein, broth, and other nutrients to help replenish our systems.
We’d rock-paper-scissors to choose who would play sick if we went without the soup for some time. I don’t think we ever fooled Mom—whoever it was still had to go to school—but she played along, making a pot. Even Dad would get in on the game.
Mom would be proud of the results. Everything in the bowl is perfection, down to a tee, smells and tastes like mom’s.
Sutton is sitting at one of the barstools, eagerly waiting. Her stomach releases another growl, loud enough to wake her neighbors downstairs.
Steam wafts from the top of the bowl. Pink lips pursed in the smallest O, Sutton blows on each spoonful before eating.
After finishing her first bowl, she eats a second. Without becoming nauseous after three bites. I’d call that success.
Magic chicken soup: 53
Sickness: 0
Before cleaning up the leftovers—I doubled the batch, thank goodness—I snap a picture and send it in our family group chat.
Sutton collects our dishes, rinses and adds them to the dishwasher.
I pull the sports drinks I purchased out of the fridge, setting them on the counter. She picks up the blue one, taking it to the couch.
“Do you want to watch a movie?” she mumbles.
The heel of my right foot is sticking out of my shoe. I was in the middle of putting them on to leave when she asked.
I don’t allow myself to chew on her offer, I heel-toe my Birkenstocks off and walk over to the couch. Lying on the chaise, Sutton’s feet reach my thighs.
Sutton scrolls through two streaming sites before landing on her pick. She presses play on A Cinderella Story, and I know it’s because she had the biggest crush on Chad Michael Murray as a kid. I get it. I mean, look at the dude, when the drought ends and he’s cupping Hilary’s cheek to kiss her.
We quote the entire thing, sounding a lot like a duet audiobook. After we finish this rom-com, we let auto-play queue up the next one.
No conversation passes between us. Only us regurgitating our favorite lines, laughter, and a few tears till Sutton starts to doze off.
Eyelashes flutter gently against her cheeks. They’re the darkest shade of red, almost brown. Long and curl upward naturally.
She’s fighting sleep but eventually waves the white flag. Her mouth falls open to release the cutest little snore I’ve ever heard.
Sutton sleeps through the rest of the movie. I don’t try to leave when it ends, letting her head rest on my shoulder. A third starts, and finally after this one ends I carry her to bed and leave.