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“Rosalie,” I say, one palm on her door.

“You said you were leaving it on the doorstep. As in, setting it down and walking away,” her nasally voice calls through the closed door.

“No, I said it was on your doorstep,” I say, my fingers growing warm around the plastic containers of chicken tortellini goodness.

“You didn’t mention that you were with it.” Her words are followed by a bout of coughing.

“Hey,” I say, turning the knob and attempting to push open her door. She wouldn’t have minded before. But we aren’t in that place anymore and the door doesn’t make it far.

Rosalie peeks through the crack I’ve made, her body blocking the door from opening any farther. “What do you think you’re doing?” she croaks, her brows low.

“I—you were coughing. I was worried. I just—” I exhale, deflating. It shouldn’t be this hard. This woman loves me. I know she does. The way she looks at me, says my name, and doesn’t let me get away with anything is proof. “Sorry.”

She sighs and lets the door swing open two more inches.

Progress.

“Listen, Zev, you don’t want to come in here.” She swallows and winces. Her throat must be sore, too. “I’m sneezing and coughing and—” She sniffs. “Leaking.”

“I don’t mind,” I say, senseless hope surging through me.

“You would if I let you in.” She shakes her head, but she must step back because the door moves open another inch. “It’s a mess in here. I’m going to have to disinfect everything before my gram gets home.”

“I brought you another book,” I say, motioning to the book beneath my arm. My girl can’t resist a book. I’m banking on it. Even if her eyes are too sore to read it right now.

She nibbles on her lip and sniffs, a nasally sigh falling from her chest. “You’ve been warned.”

And I’m in.

Nineteen

I mention living with my grandmother and he doesn’t have a comment. I thought he’d ask. I thought knowing that I live with Grammy might scare him and he’d bolt. Not that I’m opposed to company. It’s been an even more lonely few days without my books, but I kind of thought mentioning my elderly roommate would be a see-you-later situation.

But he doesn’t seem to care. He’s not even curious. He just enters my sick-infested apartment like I’ve said nothing.

I don’t know if it’s the flu meds or my strange curiosity, but I decide to test the topic. “I love living with my grandma. She’s seventy-eight—” I wrinkle my swollen nose and hold up one finger. “Err, no, eighty-four. She’s eighty-four and a spitfire.” If I didn’t feel so miserable, I would care more that my place is a mess and I’m in Winnie the Pooh pjs.

“That’s nice,” he says, his tone sincere.

I tilt my aching head to the side. “I realize I’m… twenty-six. And that living with your grandmother might be seen as pathetic.”

“Why?” Zev asks, soup and book in hand, waiting just over the threshold of my entrance. I guess he’s waiting for me to lead him farther inside. I am pretty curious about that book… “She needs a place to live, so do you. I imagine you’re a great help to her.”

I’ve only thought of Gram being a help to me. But I think he’s right. She misses Gramps. So do I. And all that missing feels a little more bearable when we’re together.

“You should sit,” he says, another hint that we’re still in the entry.

“Right.” My nasally tone comes out not nearly as tired as I feel. “This way.” I lead him into our small living room. The one I’ve been using as a catch-all this week. Piles of clean laundry are mounded on the couch, and the coffee table is simply a surface for my dirty dishes and tissues. I sigh. “Sorry.”

“You’re sick and I came uninvited. If anyone should apologize, it’s me.”

Exhaling, I lift my hand to my aching head. “That’s true.”

“Here,” he says, scooping up all of my laundry and tossing it into Gramp’s old recliner chair. “Lie down. I’ll warm up the soup.”

“That’s clean,” I tell him. “I just haven’t felt up to folding it.”

“Completely understandable,” angelic Zev, with the boulders for shoulders, says.