Chapter 12
chapter
twelve
Jules
I mention my scratchy throat exactly once. One time, in passing.
By Thursday I sound like a frog who smokes, and I've gone through an entire box of tissues and most of my will to live.
Me: I know I texted earlier that you could come over tonight.
Me: I’m rescinding the offer.
Me: I think I have the plague.
Payton: Need anything?
Me: No.
An hour later there's a knock. By the time I shuffle to the door in my robe, looking like a Victorian consumption patient, Payton's already halfway back down my porch steps.
There's a paper bag on the welcome mat: a quart of chicken noodle soup from Ruthie's, orange juice, cough drops, and the fancy lotion tissues I'd never buy for myself.
There's a note on the soup lid.
Store-bought. Don't panic.
—P
"I'm not coming in," he calls from the bottom step. "You're gross."
"Rude," I croak.
He grins, touches two fingers to his forehead in a salute, and climbs back in his truck.
I eat the whole quart on my couch with my feet tucked under a blanket. It's from a diner. It is not special.
It's the best soup I've ever had in my life.
I throw away two old take-out menus from the junk drawer because it’s kind of overflowing. I’m not thinking about the items I decided where trash and which ones to keep.