18
Lia
Lia: i have to cancel
Owen: Our date?
Lia: yeah
A telling dot-dot-dot appears on my screen. Then disappears. Does that about three more times before I see a call come through. I try to clear my throat a bit before I answer.
“Hi,” I feebly force out, then clear my throat again.
“Is something wrong?” Owen asks.
“No, I just can’t make it anymore.”
“Jesus, Amelia. Why do you sound like that?”
“Like what,” I croak.
“Like a ninety-year-old chain smoker with emphysema.”
“I’ll give you three guesses.” I roll over, pulling the comforter over my head like it might end this conversation faster. “God damn middle schoolers…”
“What about middle schoolers?”
“They’re Satan.” I breathe in a long, phlegmy sniff. The air hits the back of my throat like a hand grenade, triggering an explosive coughing fit, wet and ragged. I swear that craft fair eleven-year-old didn’t seem this sick.
“You need to see a doctor,” Owen says.
“I’m fine. I have Tylenol.”
“Do you have food? Are you drinking water and juice? Who’s taking care of Archie?”
“Okay, Dad. This has been fun but I’m going to sleep now.”
“Wait Amel—”
I hang up, roll over, and fall asleep.
When I wake up, fourteen hours later, groggy and scratchy but alive, I’m amazed that Archie hasn’t peed in the apartment despite missing his night walk entirely.
I tumble out of bed, shoving my feet into my hideous pair of dog-walking slides and blindly reaching towards his leash on its hook, when there’s a knock on the door.
I walk slowly towards it, head pounding, throat and ears stinging like a raw wound.
I open it but can’t tell who it is because my vision is all stars, eyes squeezed shut, blood pooling in my temples and I’m dizzy, head-rushy, blinded by it.
“Amelia, what the fuck.”
Two big hands are on my elbows, holding me upright until my eyes can focus again.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“Yeah, you’re welcome,” Owen says, guiding me back into my apartment until the backs of my thighs brush the edge of the mattress and I give in, falling to a seat on it. “You look horrible.”
“What a sweet-talker.”
“And you sound horrible too. Holy fuck. Would you lie down, please?”
“Archie has to go out.”
“Well, you’re not taking him.”
I would object but Owen’s already walking over to where I dropped the leash on the floor—when did I do that?—and bending to clip it on Archie’s collar.
“Hello, big guy. Yes, hello. Is your mom acting like a crazy person who doesn’t care about her own health?”
“I didn’t ask you to do that,” I say even as my head is touching down on the pillow.
“Of course not,” is his only reply as he grabs my keys off the side table and kidnaps my dog.
I think about yelling after him but I’m so tired… my throat hurts… I’m already falling asleep again.
When my eyes open, there’s a man sitting with a laptop open on my work table, scraps of acid-wash denim and red velvet cleared away into a neat stack.
His posture is hunched as he furiously types, and that’s a surprise.
If he knew I was looking I’m sure he would put on a show of perfect posture, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he reads something he doesn’t like, sighs, then runs his hands through his hair in that Andy-like gesture that makes me huff a laugh.
Or at least I try to, but the sharp exhale immediately turns into a hacking cough and then he’s there, standing beside me, pressing a hand between my shoulder blades to help me sit up.
“Morning, sunshine,” he teases.
“Just let me die.”
“You need to eat something. And you should take more medicine. Do you know when you last had some?”
“Dunno.” I shake my head, eyes closed, room still spinning.
“Jesus, Amelia. You’re an adult. You have to take medication as directed. You have a dog that’s relying on you, none of your friends know what’s going on, you—”
“I didn’t ask you to come here, you know. If you’re so fucking miserable then just leave.”
“I didn’t say I’m miserable. I said I’m worried about you.”
“No, you didn’t.”
When I open my eyes, he’s before me, Tylenol in one hand and a glass of water in the other.
“Dietary restrictions?” he asks.
“What?” I reply, thinking I might be sicker than I thought because I’m not following.
“I brought over some food and things. Is there anything you can’t eat?”
I shake my head again as I take the pills from his hand.
Then he makes me soup. Not from scratch, but from a plastic tub.
A tub he brought. He heats it up on the stove, then pours it into a bowl he finds in a kitchen cabinet.
The bowl is one of my favorites—it’s shaped like a turtle shell, with beautifully imperfect little divots around the top rim.
The soup is chicken and pastina and garlic and parmesan.
I can’t stop my satisfied rumble as the first swallow moves down my throat.
“You like it?” he asks.
“Where’d you get this? Did you talk to Nolan?”
He shakes his head. “I was googling what to feed sick people and I saw an article about something called Italian Penicillin. You’re nothing more than an Italian American stereotype to me, so I thought it would probably work.”
That makes me laugh, and it hurts and feels good too. My eyes can’t quite leave the bowl as I say, “Thanks.”
There’s a pause—half a thought—before he replies, “You’re welcome.”
“Okay. You did your good deed for the day. Go home before you catch your death.”
“I’m sure I already have whatever you have,” he says. “This apartment is so small it’s like I’m living inside your mouth.”
I summon just enough strength to chuck my extra pillow at him, but it falls extremely short, flopping to the floor.
He walks over, bends down, then hands it back to me. “Care to try that again, hot stuff?”
“Ugh whyyyyyy are you still here?” I roll to the far side of my double bed to get away from him, and I cannot overstate my utter shock when he crawls in next to me.
It’s not sexy. It’s not even affectionate.
It’s bewilderingly casual. My eyes feel like they’re bulging out of my head as I say, “You’re in my bed. ”
“What are we watching?” He places his laptop on his lap, then opens an internet browser.
“Why are you in my bed? And how did you get my WiFi password?”
“I have a hot spot. And it’s because I don’t trust you to wake up and take more Tylenol when you need to, and Archie needs someone to walk him, and the Seaport is too far to bother leaving and coming back, and also because I didn’t really want to get work done today anyway. Movie or TV?”
“Owen.” I force myself to sit up, slowly adjusting until my back is against the headboard and I can look him evenly in the eye.
“I don’t know what alternate universe you’re living in, but I am sick.
And you are in my apartment uninvited. Just because we went on a single date doesn’t mean you own me now. ”
“What’s wrong with you? Of course I don’t own you. You’re really fucked in the head, you know that?”
“Why are you here?” I insist.
“Because you’re sick, and you’re stubborn. It has nothing to do with the fact that I like you and want to kiss your ass both literally and figuratively. Now, movie or TV?”
“I’m not gonna fuck you today, you know. I’m not even gonna touch you.”
“There is literally snot dripping out of your nose.”
“Ew!” I wipe it away on my sleeve. “Ugh! I don’t want you to see me like this.”
“Well I already have,” he says. “So, given that, and given that I would really like to stay, are you still gonna kick me out or are you gonna pick TV or movie?”
I slither down until the blanket is up to my chin. “Movie.”
He’s not a sore winner about it, and I’m grateful. “Genre?” he asks.
“Horror.”
“Horror?”
“Unless you want to watch something really ephemeral that I can pretend to like next time I’m talking to artsy assholes.”
“You really like horror movies?”
My arm is pressed to his thigh for lack of space. He feels warm and solid, and it’s a comfort against my better judgement. “Love them. They’re so camp, and they make you feel something. Slashers and exorcisms are the best, but I won’t say no to zombies or witches either.”
“I’m seeing one called The Conjuring…”
“Oh, yes, that’s perfect.” My eyes are already closed, cheek pressing softly into the silk pillowcase.
I’m asleep before Ed and Lorraine set foot in the haunted house.
When I wake again, the sun is shining brightly through my west-facing windows and Owen’s thumb is gently grazing my cheek.
“Amelia,” he says, and my eyes crack open. “Pill time.”
And it feels so much better than I thought it would—being taken care of.