61. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
I relax, if you could call struggling to breathe while eyeing the cobwebs on the ceiling relaxing.
I don’t.
I rest in the living room, light from the kitchen bleeding in.
Yesterday, I’d picked up some routine meds and some that I hope will shift how rough I feel from a local pharmacy.
I pop a pain relief pill and hope the pressure in my chest subsides.
I pray it’ll work some kind of wonder on my head too, and that hopefully, I’ll be able to lift it from the uncomfortable pillow sometime today.
The last pill didn’t make it happen.
I doubt this one will either.
I’ve been here since last night after I was sent home from work early to avoid the risk of infecting anyone.
God, I was so fucking ill last night, coughing all over the bar and too close to the line of customers.
I’ve felt rough since getting caught in the rain as Dollie and I visited our parents, but things got worse yesterday when I almost collapsed at Colson’s office. Initially, I thought it might have been down to what he told me, but news like that doesn’t usually come with a fever.
Lots of people like the idea of inheriting the home they spent their childhood in. But I spent close to a year of mine in a cold, flooded basement, and I want nothing at all to do with that house.
Taking a drink from the water bottle at my side, I wash down the pill and thoughts of that place.
Pills aren’t something I like, but I don’t want to remain bedbound, or in this case, sofa-bound, so I need to try to get well. Maybe I should offer one to Dollie, who crashed in the reading room late last night, surrounded by all her favorite things.
She’s still there now, as far as I know. Occasionally, a clatter or bang seeps from that way, or a cough. She’s just as sick as I am, and that’s why “Boyfriend of the Year” is nowhere to be seen. He should be here caring for her. She’s coughing every few minutes and sniffling every other second.
Struggling to make myself comfortable in my stretched-out position on the sofa, I hunt down my phone when it wedges in my back, before it slips down the gap between the seats.
There’s an email on the screen that I’m only now seeing, sent this morning at 11:45 a.m.
It’s now 5 p.m.
A frown pulls down my eyebrows because it’s from Dollie, who hasn’t used my email since we created it together around fifteen years ago as a way for me to submit my schoolwork.
Dollie.La’[email protected]:
I’m not sure if you’re awake yet, but I’m gonna start lunch soon. I’ll make you something, too. Peace offering?
I search for something to distract me from my rising temperature, other than the crack on my phone screen that’s tormenting me to no end.
I dropped it yesterday, dizzy at work. Then again, when I came home and took Bubbles out.
She lies on the floor next to me, chewing on one of the socks I’ve kicked off.
If that weird dog tries to kiss me later, I think that’ll be the thing to kill me off.
She perks up each time Dollie calls into this room and asks if I’m ready for something to eat. I’d told her an hour ago I wasn’t feeling like food and said no more.
Every time she looks my way, my mind wanders to a dangerous place where I picture the look she’d have had on her face yesterday, moaning behind that closed door.
It drifted into my head all last night with each text she sent to Lucky, telling him—me—all the shitty things Shane has done lately.
He never asked about our parents or how Dollie was feeling.
I knew that. He wanted her to keep her distance from me.
I knew that, too. He blew her off because she was ill, and he cared more about catching it than he did about her well-being.
I never told her this, but shitty people do shitty things.
A sigh hurts me as I click the first video I find on an app loaded with millions of them. It’s an attempt to distract me from hating on Shane because I don’t have the level of energy it requires.
A trailer for a new and interesting horror movie starts with the final girl screaming too loudly.
Feet scurry through the house as I drop my phone, and it hits me in the dick.
Karma for getting aroused by Dollie, probably delivered by my father, if he does, in fact, haunt this house like she thinks.
She skids into the living room, a hot mess of bed hair and heavy breathing. A magic eight ball is clutched tightly in her hands, and her trembling body is covered by a giant hoodie—mine. It looks so good on her that I can’t help smiling. Can’t stop fucking looking at her almost endless legs.
And then I see her feet, and she has the most ridiculous slippers on. I can only assume they belong to Shane, and that steals my smile.
My eyes hurt from rolling so far.
“God, I thought that was you screaming. I thought you were having another nightmare. You scared me.”
I say nothing.
“You can communicate, you know.”
I swallow down my nerves because despite ignoring the situation, it’s still here, and beneath it, so is the pain from her snapping at me yesterday.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. I opted for email over hand or mouth movements, because at least that way, I could avoid looking at her. She reads my message back aloud.
“Those slippers are repulsive.” She giggles. “They’re…not mine.”
I didn’t think they would be, with the big furry toes and dirty-looking nails.
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I’ll get you a better-looking pair when I get paid. Assuming I don’t go over my sick days and lose my job.
I gotta be getting close to Valaria’s last nerve by now.
I cough, trying my hardest to keep the germs from Dollie and her weakened immune system, even though she already shares what I have.
That said, she’s up on her feet and I’m not.
“I’m sure you can work some of that Irish charm on your boss.”
Is that a hint of jealousy I hear? What even makes her think my boss is a woman?
“Anyway, how are you feeling?”
I respond with a series of emails whenever she talks to me.
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Like shit. So, get out.
“I already have what you have.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I’m worse. You don’t wanna get worse.
“Oh, God. Do you have man-flu?”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Maybe.
On top of the delightful chest infection.
“Oh, how terrible.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Do not take the piss out of me, little sister.
I hate that I used that term, but she needs reprimanding, and I need reminding of who she is to me.
“That’s what little sisters are for,” she quips back. “Anyway, I did offer earlier, but I’m actually gonna make something to eat. I’ll make you some, too.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I still don’t feel like eating. What’s with the magic eight ball?
Dollie stares down at her hands. “I asked it if I should check on you.” She sets the ball on the table.
“Maybe you should ask it if it’s time for you to eat.
Because if you don’t, your body will get weaker.
So, you have to try. I can make a soup, or that stew Dad used to make when we were little, if we have the stuff. ”
Humoring her, I stretch to the coffee table and pick up the ball. I ask it a silent question and wait for the little ball of plastic to side against me.
Should I eat?
The answer appears— without a doubt.
Placing it back down, I push it away before Dollie sees the answer in the ball.
My pinched expression is enough of an answer.
“Oh, I was right? So, Dad’s stew?”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I doubt we have the stuff.
“I guess I’ll have to improvise then.”
An hour later, Dollie returns, two bowls in hand.
I force myself up on the sofa, shivering as the comforter falls down my naked torso. I stripped off my T-shirt a while ago because I couldn’t stand the feeling of it choking me, but I also couldn’t face all twenty steps to the second floor to get another.
It’s a fight between pulling the comforter higher and forcing my arms into the sleeves of my tee to hide myself as quickly as possible. The tattoo below my elbow is no longer the only reason. I’m also conscious of my scars, now that she’s made negative comments on my appearance.
Once dressed and burning up below the blanket, I accept one of the bowls.
“I don’t think it’s gonna taste like Dad’s.” She places her bowl on the coffee table and steals my uncomfortable pillow to sit on.
I push a challenging glare her way, reminding her she shouldn’t be anywhere near me right now.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine here. I think it’s the man-flu bringing you down, not the chest infection or cold or whatever else you have.
Anyway, try this before it gets cold.” Dollie is the first to take the spoon to her lips, and the look on her face tells me it doesn’t taste like the stew Dad used to make.
“Okay. Maybe don’t taste it. It’s awful.” She stills, and worry claims her features. “Are my cakes this bad?”
I take a sip of the soup, and I’m unable to confirm or deny if it’s awful because my taste buds have decided to go rogue and ignore all the flavors in my mouth.
I email another quick message, and her phone vibrates on the table.
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
When you feel better, make me a cake and I’ll let you know.
She glances at her phone to read my message.
“Well, it is your birthday soon.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
I don’t celebrate.
You know that.
“You can still have a cake.”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
Okay. But only to prove to you they taste great.
I put my phone in my lap to take another spoonful of stew. Still can’t taste it, but the potatoes melt in my mouth, and potatoes aren’t meant to do that.
I bring my phone back to my hand and message her again, because I just can’t resist.
AmbroseLa’[email protected]:
When I’m feeling better, I’ll also help you by teaching you how to cook potatoes.
“What makes you think you’re better than me? When have you ever had to cook for yourself?”
AmbroseLa’[email protected]: