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“You’re looking…okay” he said, and I flicked his leg on his way to the kitchen, where he unloaded the bags. He returned a few minutes later, handing me a Gatorade and settling down on the couch. He gathered the blanket around my feet and placed them in his lap. “You think you need to call the doctor?”
“It’s probably a twenty-four-hour thing. I’m feeling better anyway.”
“Are you sure?” When I nodded, he pointed to the blue liquid. “Drink.”
I slowly sipped from the bottle. “You should sleep at home tonight, quarantine me.”
“Nope. You said it yourself, I’m a good nurse.”
“Go home,” I ordered rather unconvincingly.
“You say the word, and my home becomes your home.”
I ignored him, snuggling deeper into the blanket.
“Or we can stay up late watching cheesy pre-Christmas Christmas movies on this broken-down sofa in your apartment, and then tomorrow, we can take a ride to my place so I can change before dinner.”
“Yeah, that sounds good.”
“You’re lucky I like you.” He pinched my little toe and hunkered down for the night with me, a comforter, and a barrage of bad holiday movies.
I don’t know when exactly I fell asleep, but I didn’t even feel Jason move me to my bed. In the morning, I rolled to my side to find him awake already, scrolling on his phone with one arm behind his head.
“Morning,” I rasped.
He smiled. “Feeling better?”
I nodded and curled into his warm side.
His big hand landed on my ass, squeezing it. “Are you sure?”
I leaned up onto an elbow to kiss him but as soon as his mouth covered mine, my stomach swooped. He wrenched away when a very unladylike sound erupted from my throat. “All right?”
“I feel…off. Like, everything is making me feel…” I grimaced, motioning vaguely at my chest.
“Well, I have been known to take a woman’s breath away a time or two,” he said, and I punched weakly at his shoulder. “Here.” He offered me a place in his open arm. “Lie down. Try and go back to sleep. We don’t have anywhere to be for a few hours.”
I did go back to sleep, but I still felt like garbage as I slumped over my mother’s festive table, straight out of Martha Stewart’s catalogue with two white candles, a centerpiece of acorns and colorful miniature pumpkins, and overflowing bowls of every kind of steaming hot vegetable. Mom carried in a huge dish of mashed potatoes between two oven mitts.
“You do realize there are only four of us, right?” I asked her.
“Yes, I realize that, but it’s Thanksgiving.” She whacked at me with the oversized gloves.
Jason snatched a green bean stalk. “Everything looks wonderful, Caroline.”
“Thank you. At least someone appreciates it. Wait until you see the—”
“Turkey’s here!” Frank carried in a giant, deep-fried turkey on a platter painted with miniature turkeys along the rim. He placed it in the middle of the table.
I ignored how the smell of the meat turned my stomach and pointed to the platter. “Where did you find that?”
“The turkey? I went—” Frank started but was interrupted by my mom.
“I was cleaning out a few things when I came across that art project.” She looked to Jason. “Gemmie painted that plate when she was twelve.”
He ruffled my hair. “My little Picasso.”
“Drinks? Wine? Some pitorro, Gem?” Frank asked.
