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“Normal,” Lucas repeats.
I wince. ‘Normal’ is a hollow word. “I mean that I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to stop arguing. And I’m sorry for shouting and swearing at you last night—”
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Lucas says.
“Let’s just say we’re both sorry and promise not to argue anymore. I’m tired of it.”
Lucas looks exhausted too, shadows under his eyes and a sadness around his lips. “We can’t promise that we’ll never argue again.”
I quirk my lips in spite of myself. “You’re right. Fine… Let’s promise that the next time we fight, we’ll try to be mature about it. Like the adults we supposedly are.”
He nods. “Okay. Let’s try.”
We eat in silence, and I lose myself in thoughts about what I have to do today: call Jemima to let her know I’m no longer an emotional mess, do a load of laundry, text Hugo in case he was worried about me leaving the party—
Lucas coughing interrupts my thoughts.
I frown. “Are you okay?”
“‘M fine,” he says with a wave of his hand.
“Maybe you should have a rest day.”
“I can’t. Exams in two weeks, remember?”
Shit. That’s right. This week is the final week of semester, and then it’s SWOTVAC, and then exam season. I mentally add study a hell of a lot to my to-do list.
*
By that evening, Lucas’s cough has turned into the flu, I’m sure of it. He sits at his desk with his laptop in front of him, and he’s trying to watch Khan Academy videos on YouTube while I wave a thermometer in his face.
“Stop being stubborn and let me take your temperature,” I say.
“If I’m actually sick, it’s probably contagious.”
“If you’re actually sick, you need to rest.”
When he doesn’t respond, I reach over and press the space bar so the video on Kirchhoff’s voltage law pauses. Then I move the laptop off the desk before he can play it again.
“Lucas, if you’re actually sick, there’s no point studying. Now let me take your temperature.”
“I’m fine.”
He’s not fine. He looks even worse than he did this morning, his complexion grey. I was watching lectures in my room, but I could still hear his sneezes and coughs over the video’s audio.
I wave the thermometer in his face once more.
“Fine,” he says, taking it from me. “But I can take my own temperature. I’m not a child.”
He places it under his tongue, and after a moment, it beeps, the screen reading 38 degrees Celsius.
“Just like I thought, you’re sick. You need to get some sleep.”
“I feel fine. Really. And I’ve got so much to do —”
I reach out and press my palm against his forehead. He’s just as hot as the thermometer indicated. “It’s better if you recover now rather than later. Get into bed.”
Lucas stares at me, and for a moment, I’m sure he’ll argue. But then he pulls himself out of his chair and walks to his bed. “I’ll listen to you if you listen to me. Don’t catch it. I don’t want you to get sick.”
