Page 27 of The Fake Out

Iris frowned when she saw me. “You look awful. Worse than usual, even.”

“I didn’t sleep well,” I mumbled as I shuffled to the kitchen and the coffee.

“Seriously.” Her face scrunched in concern. “Maybe you should stay home.”

“I’ll be fine.” And that’s exactly what I kept telling myself as I dressed and dragged myself to the library. But by eleven, the headache had gotten so bad I felt nauseated and sapped of energy. I canceled story time and seriously considered laying in front of the 200s (Religion) and dying.

My phone buzzed.

Dreamboat: Hey, sweet cheeks, wanna meet up for lunch. Just Me-N-U. Get it. Menu. Me-N-U.

Me: Ugh.

Dreamboat: That’s all you got? I’m disappointed.

Instead of replying, I buried my face in my arms on the counter. A minute later, the phone rang.

“Why are you calling?”

“I was worried,” Chris said. “You didn’t insult me. I thought you might be in danger and trying to tell me you needed help.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. Just not feeling well.”

There was a pause. “You sound terrible.”

“Your pickup lines are getting better and better.”

“No, really. What’s wrong?” he asked, and I could hear the concern in his voice which was kind of nice.

“I think I’m going to go home and crawl under the covers and cry myself to sleep.” That sounded like a great plan.

“I never imagined you as a crier,” he said. It was weird to think he’d thought about that. Had he thought other things about me? Was I taking up a tiny little space in his brain? If I were honest (with just myself), he was in my head a little too much.

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me, I broke my arm in the sixth grade. I cried.”

“Thank God, you are human. I was starting to wonder.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“One last thing. Don’t die. Funerals are so depressing.”

* * *

The house was empty when I got home, a rarity. But Mama had a couple of back-to-back doctor appointments at the medical center in Houston. Then she and Sue were making a day of it with lunch and shopping at the Galleria.

I tracked down some pain reliever and took a hot shower. Kevin kindly made some space for me on my bed, and I was half asleep when a knock on the front door came. I ignored it and snuggled down under the covers, unwilling, and possibly unable, to move. But the knocking continued.

“Go away,” I muttered, not that whoever the intruder was could hear me.

They did not go away.

With a dramatic sigh, I wrapped myself in a blanket and stumbled to the front door. I was expecting a delivery guy, a Jehovah’s Witness, a guy trying to sell me steaks from his trunk, but nope, it was worse.

“Wow. You do look like you feel bad,” Chris said.

“Again, how are these pickup lines working for you?”

He held up a plastic sack. “I brought you soup.”