“I guess it’s hard to ask if you have a sore throat or body aches, huh?”
“I’m one giant body ache.”
“Meds?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
“Coffee?”
“Can you ice it?”
“That I can do.”
“Did you get any sleep?”
“A few hours. Enough. I’m sure we will all crash on and off all day. But I wanted to get the groceries put away and make the soup so we can all lounge around.”
“Soup sounds good.”
“Glad you think so because I have a feeling we are going to get more dropped off by the women in the family. Plus somelasagnas or pastas. The Family always comes in hard when people are hurt or sick.”
“I could always go for lasagna. But that soup sounds good.”
“It’s got another twenty minutes or so to go. Then you can have as much as you want. Here,” he said, coming back with a glass full of iced coffee and three pills. “Two ibuprofen for your fever and one of the pain pills from Salvatore. And I don’t want to hear any bitching about it; you need it.”
I wasn’t about to complain.
Once the pills were working their way through my system and I had half of the iced coffee in me, I was feeling slightly less awful.
It was then that Liam came walking in the door, still hinged to the side like his ribs hurt. There was a bulkiness under his shirt, too, like maybe he’d wrapped them up before the walk.
His bruises had set in, a smattering of navy and plum stains over his jaw, his chin, under one of his eyes, and on his forehead and temple.
On top of that, his lip looked a bit swollen from the inside where Christopher said he’d needed to get stitches.
But it could have been so, so much worse.
“You,” I said, sighing at him, “don’t you ever come to my rescue again.”
His smile was slow.
“Not making that promise.”
“Stubborn Costa men.”
“You love us.”
“When you’re right, you’re right. You feeling sick too?” I asked.
His step hesitated, like he didn’t want to get close to me.
“You’ve already been exposed,” Christopher said, shrugging. “I think we’re all doomed at this point. Best we can hope for is that one of us stays well enough to take care of the others.”
We were still just standing there when Charlotte’s little cry drifted over to us. “Mom?” she called. Then, seeming to remember herself, “Uncle Chris?”
“Want me to go?” I asked. “Or should she not see me like this?”
“Ezzy and Brio talked to her last night. And I talked to her this morning. It’s alright.”
