Page 77 of All Our Nevers

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.