Chapter 8 #2
Unfortunately, it doesn’t come easy. My thoughts are filled with Quinn, and that makes me fidgety.
I have no business thinking about him in any way other than a family friend who helped me out.
But I can’t stop feeling his hand against my forehead, followed by his lips.
I replay it over and over again, until the medicine finally kicks in and I drift off to sleep.
It’s not a restful sleep.
Not with dreams of Quinn plaguing me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” I tell Mom as she delivers another bowl of homemade soup.
It’s Friday, and even though I’m still coughing a bit, the pain in my ears and throat has started to subside. “I think we should push back your birthday dinner. Why don’t we do next Saturday? We can combine your birthday with Quinn’s.”
I want to roll my eyes, but Linda Miller isn’t a fan.
“Why do we have to celebrate his birthday anyway? He’s not family,” I grumble, even though there’s no bite in my bark.
We’ve celebrated Quinn’s birthday since he was in kindergarten, when Mom found out his parents didn’t do anything special for him at home or school.
She stayed up late the night before and baked cupcakes with green icing, his favorite color, so he could take them to school and share with their classmates.
“Knock it off,” she chastises, placing the fresh soup in my fridge. “He’s as much a part of our family as anyone.”
“I mean, not really,” I grumble, unable to stop myself. Maybe if I bitch and moan about him, I’ll stop thinking about him in his boxer briefs. “Thank you for the soup.”
“You’re welcome,” she replies, bright and cheery. “Find any good shows on TV?”
Mom knows how well I do with idle time, as in not well at all. I don’t want to just sit around watching TV. I like to keep myself busy. “Daytime TV is crap,” I grumble.
She chuckles and nods. “It is. That’s why I stream when I’m home during the day.”
“I was going to dust and do laundry today,” I tell her.
“You will not.”
My mouth drops open as I take in her “mother” stance. Hands on hips, toes tapping on the floor, narrowed eyes letting me know she’s not pleased. “What?”
“You’re sick, Charlotte. You need rest.”
I open my mouth to argue but start coughing instead.
“My point exactly!” she proclaims, walking over to the fridge and grabbing a bottle of Gatorade. There’s only one bottle left from what Quinn brought Wednesday, so I mentally add a trip to the grocery store to my to-do list. “You need to just chill and rest. I can do your laundry and clean.”
“You will do no such thing,” I state. “I’ve got it.”
She exhales and pins me with a look. “You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”
I can’t help but snort a laugh. “Pot…kettle.”
Mom huffs, but doesn’t argue, because she knows she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. I am stubborn and determined, just like her. I get it honestly. “Anyway, I can come over Sunday.”
“I’ll be fine by Sunday,” I declare. “I’m already feeling better. By Sunday, I’ll be back at it.”
“Well, the offer stands. If you want me to come help you clean, call me.”
I nod, appreciating the gesture, even if I have no plan to call her for help. “Thank you for the soup.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie,” she says. “I’ll leave you in peace. Holler if you need something.”
“Love you,” I tell her, standing up and walking her toward the back door.
“Love you too,” she replies, pulling me in for a warm, comforting hug. “Rest.”
I nod again and make sure the door is secured behind her.
Then, I move to the washing machine and prepare to start a load.
By the time I go to my bedroom, sort out a pile of towels, place them in the machine, and press the buttons, I’m out of breath and a little sore.
My body definitely isn’t a fan of so much invading sickness.
Usually, I can power through about anything, but this multi-infection invasion is really doing a number on my ability to do even the most trivial tasks.
I grab my phone to text Sommer. I need to let her know we’re not celebrating my thirtieth tomorrow.
Me
Hey, Mom stopped by. She’s pushing back my b-day celley to next weekend, since I’m still feeling like a horse ran over me.
After a few seconds, the bubbles appear.
Sommer
Aww, dang it. I was hoping you’d be feeling better so we can tear it up tomorrow night. It was a week, and I could really use a drink.
Me
Me too, but it’ll have to wait until next Saturday.
Sommer
No problem. Need anything?
Me
No thanks. Mom just dropped off more soup, so I’m set.
Sommer
All right, well, I have a customer I need to take care of. Text me if you need anything. I get off at six.
Me
*insert saluting gif* aye, aye, Captain.
Sommer
*insert kissy face emoji*
I grab the bottle of Gatorade and head for the living room to curl up on the couch.
My favorite blanket is there, and once I climb beneath it and grab the remote, my head feels foggy and my eyelids heavy.
I don’t even turn the TV on. Instead, I get comfortable and prepare for an afternoon nap, something I never do unless I’m sick.
I don’t eat, not even a thought to the amazing soup my mom just dropped off.
My mind goes to Quinn and the fact I’m considering texting him to bring me more Gatorade.
Not my mom.
Not one of my brothers.
Not Sommer.
Quinn.
That’s a problem, because asking for help and inviting him over to my space is not something I need to do. I’m liable to jump his bones like a dog in heat, but ever since his massage, I can’t help but wonder…
Is he really as endowed as he appeared in those tight boxer briefs?
And why the hell am I thinking of that image again?
Because it’s been a really long time since I’ve had anyone show me their big stick, as much as I’d like to pretend that’s not the case.
Two years since Richard the Cheating Dickface stuck his wiener into Gabby the Skank.
I say wiener now because after seeing Quinn standing there, hard and ready, it’s proof that Richard was shorted in the dick-length pool.
I try to ignore the hum between my legs and squeeze my eyes shut.
I need rest.
No, you need dick.
Fucking subconscious.
I’m never going to get any sleep now.