Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
I spend the day in a sleepy haze, but by six p.m., I’m feeling slightly more human.
I don’t feel great, but I no longer feel like utter death like I did yesterday or when I woke up this morning.
Deep down, I know it’s because of Wren. She came up a few times, making sure I chugged an electrolyte drink and took some medicine before I fell back asleep.
Although my nose is still running and my throat is still scratchy, the headache that wouldn’t end is gone, and I feel like I have control of my limbs again.
I hear a noise downstairs as I lie in bed, assessing my body. When I realize I’m not falling back to sleep, I decide to head downstairs. As I make my way down, I’m hit with the most delicious smell, and despite not having an appetite all day, my stomach growls.
“Oh, you’re alive!” Wren says as I shuffle into the living room.
She sets her laptop aside and stands from the couch, moving my way.
I furrow my brow at her, confused as to why she’s still here, but I don’t have time for that when she lifts a small hand, resting the back of it against my forehead.
“Oh, you feel so much better, thank God.”
She steps back, taking me in. I’m sure I look absolutely disgusting, but she smiles at me and nods.
“You look better, too. Are you hungry?” I don’t answer, but my stomach does, growling loudly.
She lets out a small laugh before tipping her head toward the dining room.
“Come on, sit at the table, and I’ll get you something. ”
I don’t say anything, still confused and a bit sleepy, but I do as I’m told, sitting at the kitchen table. In a minute, a bowl is in front of me alongside a spoon and a big glass of water. She sets a couple of pills on the table as well before sitting in the chair across from me.
“Take those, too. You look better, but let’s get it moving faster.”
“What are they?” I ask as I lift them, placing them all in my mouth and downing them with a gulp of water in one swallow.
“The same cold pills I’ve been giving you all day.”
“And this?” I ask, tipping my chin toward the bowl of yellow broth.
“Chicken and vegetable soup. My mom made it. It’s a miracle cure, I swear. I have no idea how, but it genuinely fixes every ailment.”
“Your mom?” She nods, watching me stir the soup to cool it down. I didn’t notice before, but there’s also a pile of saltines to the side of the bowl.
“Yeah. I’m good with cookies, but I’m shit with soup. She makes the best soup ever. Go, try it.”
I stare at her for long moments, but her eager look has me pushing down any more questions and taking a spoonful of the soup.
It’s amazing—light, warm, yet super flavorful, even for my dulled taste buds.
I take a few more bites before Wren nods at me, as if she’s satisfied that I’m taking in nourishment, before she disappears.
Eventually, she comes back with a bowl of her own in one hand and a can of soda in the other, sitting across from me as I continue to eat slowly.
“Why would your mom bring me soup?”
She looks as confused as I feel by the question, tipping her head to the side a bit before answering.
“Because I told her you were sick.” She takes a big spoonful, an egg noodle hanging precariously over the side of the spoon, before she brings it to her lips and blows on it.
“Okay…?” I ask, furrowing my brows.
She returns the look, then shrugs. “It’s what we do, Adam. We take care of each other here.”
She takes her bite.
“But I barely even know your mom.”
“But she knows you’re important to me.” She says it like it’s as simple as that, and I’m confused for a moment before it clears with some understanding.
Wren’s generosity isn’t some personality trait that came from nowhere.
It’s something her family created, curated, and nurtured. Wren just took it to the next level.
“Does she make soup for everyone who is sick in town?” I ask with a teasing smile, lifting an eyebrow as I scoop up another spoonful of the soup.
It’s probably in my head or a combination of the hot broth and my body’s desperate need for sustenance, but I think I am starting to feel better from the soup.
Wren blushes, then shakes her head. “No, she doesn’t,” she answers simply.
“But she made soup for me.”
“Yeah. She came by earlier, said she hopes you feel better.”
We fall into a comfortable silence as we eat, and I finish my bowl, setting the spoon down and taking a bite out of the saltine. I’m much hungrier than I anticipated, and without me saying anything, Wren gets up, grabs my bowl, and returns with a refill.
“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever had soup when I’m sick,” I say, feeling stupid saying it out loud.
Maybe it’s the cold medicine Wren gave me, or perhaps it’s the lingering fever weighing my body down, but I don’t have my normal filter tightly in place.
“I always kind of thought it was something from books and movies, not some actual cure-all.”
“Really?”
I shake my head, and I’m surprised when it doesn’t throb. This morning, I could barely keep my eyes open with the sinus headache that was plaguing me, but now, with food in my belly and a full day of sleep behind me, I feel almost human.
I get sick like this once, maybe twice a winter, and it usually lasts a few days at minimum, sometimes dragging on for a whole week.
I could tell myself it must be some new strain that has me bouncing back quicker, but I know somewhere deep down that it’s not. It’s being cared for, getting what my body needed, and not having to do it myself that has me feeling almost normal so soon.
“What did you have as a kid? My mom always made us soup. Sometimes, we’d have pumpkin muffins because they were Madden’s favorite, and we didn’t realize they had vegetables in them.”
I smile when she does, then shrug, embarrassed, and look away when I realize I’m supposed to give her my own anecdotes.
“I don’t…” My voice trails off. “I don’t think I’ve ever had real sick food before.”
“Your parents didn’t make you sick food?” she asks, brows furrowing.
I let out a little laugh and shake my head.
“My parents are surgeons, remember? They couldn’t get sick, or they’d miss out on a surgery, so if I caught something at school, I was kind of quarantined.
When I was really little, I’d have a nanny or a sitter take care of me.
” Wren’s eyes go wide, and I know she doesn’t mean to give me a look of pity, but she does all the same.
“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, I swear.
And when I was old enough to fend for myself, I did.
I always thought it was kind of cool—unlimited TV, whatever food I wanted.
Then I’d just…ride out my sickness. I’ve been that way ever since.
I’ll just hunker down until I feel normal again, then I’ll go on with my life.
” When I look up at her, there’s a bit of sadness on her face, but she covers it quickly with a snarky grin.
“That seemed to be going well for you,” she says. “I thought you were a zombie.”
I laugh, relieved that we’re moving off the topic. “I felt like a zombie,” I say.
“And now?”
“I feel human. Thanks to you.” I reach across the table and grab her hand, brushing my thumb over her fingers. “No one has ever done something like this for me.”
She shrugs. “It’s what I do, Adam.”
I sit up then, remembering. “Didn’t you have to go to the community center this afternoon to organize the gifts?” I stare at her, watching her body still, then relax so quickly that I would almost think it didn’t happen if I weren’t watching so closely.
“Yeah, I got it covered.”
“You got it covered?”
She looks up, turns to me, and I see her biting her lip.
“Okay, don’t get too excited, I have to go there after work tomorrow to get it done, but I pushed it off.
” I stare at her, and even though I don’t like that she is going to be working late tomorrow because she helped me, I know it’s a big moment, even more so when she continues.
“I called Sue, whom I was meeting there, to tell her I needed to reschedule, and I was worried that she would be mad, but she didn’t mind at all.
” She sounds surprised by that fact, which is so very Wren.
“You didn’t have to change your plans for me.”
She shrugs. “You were sick.”
“I would have survived. You didn’t have to do all of this just for me.”
She bites her lip, then reaches over and runs a hand through my hair. I’m sure it’s tangled and probably sweaty from my fever, but she doesn’t seem to care. Instead, she looks nervous.
I get why when she speaks her following words aloud.
“Are you mine?”
They’re exactly like the words I spoke to her a few days ago in the driveway, and I remember them seeming to take her breath away.
I get why now.
They hit me square in the chest, reaching somewhere deep in my soul as she stares at me, nervous and expectant.
It doesn’t make sense, especially considering how short an amount of time it’s been that we’ve been together, but I feel like we were meant to be here, to be next to one another and find each other.
I answer honestly. “Yeah, Wren. I’m yours.”
“I take care of what’s mine, Adam.”
The words are a whisper, but for a man who is becoming more and more aware of the fact that no one has ever taken care of him, it means everything.