“You can’t sleep in this bed with me,” I argue. “If you were really Forest, you’ll get sick. If you’re not, then that’s just creepy.”
A sigh, and one more brush of those tender fingers. “I’ll be on the couch. Yell if you need me.”
I’d say something back, but I’m back in the middle school gymnasium again, looking for a bowling ball.
My fever finally breaks the next morning, and I wake up suddenly, blinking at my walls, wondering what time it is. I’m damp from sweat and woozy. But my brain works again.
It’s something.
I push myself up to a seated position and take inventory. The house is deeply quiet. Rigsy isn’t back from his road trip yet.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Everything hurts—my spine, my ribs, my fragile pride. The air in my room smells stale, like sickness and regret. But also…cedar?
My head snaps up.
I drag myself to the bathroom, because I feel disgusting. But halfway down the hall I stop short.
There’s a soda can on the kitchen counter. Not a brand that I buy. This one is Spindrift, and the flavor is Nojito.
Forest’s favorite.
My soul detaches from my body. He was here?
I stumble backward like I’ve been punched, and then wander into the living room. That’s where I notice a folded dish towel on the couch. Neatly laid across one of the cushions. As if someone used it as a pillow.
Oh God. He slept here.
Forest.
The couch. The can. The cedar smell in my room.
The memory pokes me in the brain.
“I said I love him,” I whisper, mortified. “Out loud. With my actual mouth.” While sweating like a baked ham and hallucinating about gym class.
I cover my face with both hands. The horror is immediate and all-consuming. How much of my broken heart did I fling at him like a feverish raccoon?
Hurrying back to my room, I grab my phone off the bedside table, where someone has plugged it in for me.
Feeling like I’ve been steamrolled, I open my favorite chatbot and dictate a question. “Help! How can I undo a fever-induced confession of love?”
It thinks for a second. Then:
Based on extensive linguistic analysis, you have several options:
1. Blame it on a dream. Tell him you thought *he* said it first and you were sleep-repeating. Dreams are weird. People forgive dreams.
2. Make it a metaphor. Say you were talking about how much you love his neutral zone play. Romantic miscommunication, classic hockey blunder.
3. Distract with something weirder. Divert attention by revealing your belief in Bigfoot. Or that you eat kiwi fruit like a baked potato. Ideally both.
4. Fake your own death. Bold, but effective. Change your name and your entire personality.
5. Relocate to a distant place, such as Tahiti. Out of sight, out of mind. Also, piña coladas.
“NOT HELPFUL!” I yell before tossing the phone down on the bed. My heart is racing with embarrassment. Unless… Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I thought. Maybe I mumbled it, and Forest couldn’t even understand me.
I pick up the phone again.
