33. Marisa
CHAPTER 33
Marisa
SACRED CALDO DE POLLO
I ’m sick. It’s the Friday before Thanksgiving, and I’m on my deathbed. The flu that’s been spreading around town finally got me. I consider myself to be fairly tolerable in most uncomfortable situations, but when I’m sick, I may as well be a man, because I go full-on man cold.
I tried to deny it, but yesterday I woke up feeling off, and it only got worse as the day progressed. Today, there’s no denying it. I attempted to go into work, but my dad took one look at me and sent me straight home. At the end of the day, I found myself in bed, eventually dozing off.
Hours must have passed since I fell asleep, because my bedroom is bathed in darkness, and a hand is resting on my forehead, smoothing down my hair.
“Hey,” Ethan whispers. “How are you feeling?”
If I had any energy, I’d be shocked to see him here, but a small part of my memory recalls him inviting himself over. I’m not even sure if I responded. I’m positive my skin is gross and greasy, and there’s probably snot on my face. I should be embarrassed about letting Ethan see me like this, but his face is showing nothing but concern for me.
“Like shit,” I moan.
He chuckles, adjusting the surrounding blankets and tucking me in tighter. “You should’ve texted me that you weren’t feeling well. I would’ve come over sooner.”
“I didn’t want to get you sick.”
“Like I care about that.” He shakes his head. “There’s some medicine on the nightstand. Take it and you can go back to sleep.”
He leaves, and I down the awful-tasting liquid, sleep coming fast.
When I wake up again, it’s almost noon the next day, and the sun is shining brightly through my windows. Thankfully, I don’t feel quite as shitty as I did yesterday. In fact, my stomach growls, reminding me it’s been a while since I’ve eaten.
I get out of bed and walk to the kitchen, hoping there’s magically going to be something in my fridge that’s edible. Turning the corner, my steps falter as I stare at the man standing in my kitchen, cooking at the stove.
It’s Ethan.
Did he stay the night?
“What are you doing here?”
He turns to me, still stirring something in a pot, and smiles casually, as if it’s normal for him to be cooking in my kitchen. “Hey,” he says cheerfully. “Hungry?”
On cue, my stomach growls ferociously.
“I guess so,” I admit, still surprised to see him.
“Sit,” he commands, and I do because I’m too sick to function.
He sets a bowl in front of me.
I don’t know what to think. I look down at it and then back up at him.
What?
His grin is so big, you’d think the man never scowled a day in his life.
“How— Where— Explain yourself.”
He sits across from me at the table, still smiling proudly. “Your mom called. And then she called again. And again. By the fourth time, I finally answered. I told her you weren’t feeling well, and we got to chatting, and she gave me the recipe.”
“You talked to my mom? And she was nice?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Well, at first she was a little scary and then she was nicer.”
He talked to my mom.
I must be hallucinating.
“You’re telling me that my man-hating mother gave you her sacred caldo de pollo recipe?”
“Yep. Try it.” His eyes dart down to the bowl.
My senses are off, so I probably won’t be able to taste much of it, but presentation-wise, it’s spot on. I slurp a spoonful, Ethan watching me like a hawk the whole time.
“Well?”
“It’s pretty good,” I admit. “I wouldn’t know the difference.”
He continues chatting with me, and I hem and haw in all the right places, but my mind is somewhere else entirely.
My mom hasn’t made this for me in years. I was probably in high school the last time. It’s not a hard recipe, and I’ve made it a few times, but it’s one of those things that tastes better when someone else makes it for you. The fact that she gave him the recipe is a whole other thing to unpack. What could he have said? I’ll deal with that when my brain feels less like mush.
Maybe it’s the fever, or maybe I’m seeing what I want to see, but I get the feeling Ethan wouldn’t go out of his way like this for just anyone. What that means, I’m not entirely sure. But I can’t keep pretending this is just a friendship. This is more. And I think it’s more than I’ve ever experienced. But where does that leave us?
I finish my bowl, and even though my taste buds are a little off, it really did taste like my mom’s. I don’t know how he did it. I look at him, feeling more awake, and notice something is off. He looks…different.
“What are you wearing?”
“What?” he says, turning away to place my bowl in the sink, but I still notice the tips of his ears turning a shade of pink.
“Are those Shane’s clothes?” I can’t recall Ethan ever wearing something like this, but I know for a fact I’ve seen Shane wear something similar around town.
He shakes his head, keeping his back to me before turning around and looking everywhere but my eyes.
It’s not that I’m complaining. He looks good. He looks more than good.
“Shane and his stupid ideas,” Ethan says, more to himself than to me.
He looks younger somehow, with his face pinched, looking equal parts frustrated and annoyed. It’s cute, and I feel the weirdest urge to squeeze his cheeks.
I think the fever is making me weird.
I stand, but it’s too fast, and the vertigo makes me sway.
Ethan zips toward me, grabbing at my ribs to steady me. “Maybe I should take you to bed.”
I still, letting my body go slack in his hold, and look up at him. I may be sick, but I’m not that sick.
He winces and shakes his head. “To lie down,” he clarifies, but it’s too late. My mind went there immediately.
He stays holding me as he guides me back to my bedroom. On the way there, I notice that either little fairies appeared while I was sleeping and cleaned the cottage, or it was Ethan.
“You cleaned?” I know it was him. Who else would it be?
“A bit,” he says nonchalantly.
The heat in my chest rises a few degrees. He made me soup and he cleaned and he’s taking care of me. It’s too much. It feels too good. I don’t know what to do with all the emotions flooding me at once.
I could easily get used to this. I can’t recall ever being taken care of this way. Maybe as a child, but even then it’s different because it’s a parent. Brandon sure never did. In fact, he would quarantine himself whenever I would get sick, leaving me to basically take care of myself. I’ve been so deprived of care like this I don’t know how to handle it. By the time we get in my bedroom and Ethan helps me climb into bed, my mind is a battlefield of emotions. I try to mask it, but I’m sure he can see the turmoil written all over my face.
Ethan’s gaze meets mine, and he freezes. “What’s wrong? Does something hurt?”
He’s worried about me. Genuinely worried about me. And it’s only a flu. My heart aches, the pressure of it cracking open my chest. That’s how deprived I am, how desperate I feel. I’m so neglected, a couple of kind gestures are my undoing.
I look away, not wanting his concerned stare.
“My throat hurts,” I lie. It’s probably the one symptom I don’t have.
His forehead wrinkles, but he doesn’t question me. “I think I picked up some throat spray. Let me go check.”
He leaves, and I let out a long breath. I’m not sure what’s come over me. I think we’ve been spending too much time together, and it’s confusing me. The lines are blurring, and the memory of our kiss is still sitting at the forefront of my mind. I can’t let deep feelings develop. This feeling is fleeting, only a crush, an infatuation, nothing more. Our lives are going in two different directions. It would be pointless. It’s why he put a stop to things. Because unlike me, he thinks with his head.
“Found it.” Ethan returns, holding a bottle of throat spray.
“Thanks,” I croak, twirling my thumbs. “You don’t have to stay. You’ve been here since yesterday taking care of me. Go home, get some rest. Goose probably misses you.”
“He’s with my parents. And really I don’t mind.”
“I’m fine. Seriously. Go home.” I offer a smile, hoping he’ll buy it and leave.
He releases a long exhale. “I can’t. There’s something I need to tell you.”