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“I’m fine. I get my flu shot yearly.”
Lucas crawls into bed. “So do I.”
I arrange his blankets around him. “Yeah, but I didn’t spend last night in the rain.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Not as long as you did,” I reply, softening. “It’s my fault you’re sick.”
He closes his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Not everything in the world revolves around you.”
I huff a laugh. That’s the Lucas I know. “Get some sleep. I’ll take care of dinner.”
I expect him to protest, but he doesn’t. He already looks as if he’s sinking into slumber, his limbs relaxing into the mattress.
In the kitchen, I make a phone call. “Hi, Mum. What was that sweet corn chicken soup recipe?”
*
Now is one of the few times Lucas looks less than perfect. His skin, still pale grey, is coated with a sheen of sweat. His lips are thinned, and there’s a crease in his brow even as he sleeps.
“Lucas.” I gently shake his shoulder.
His eyes open and he blinks rapidly as he looks around, disoriented.
“I made you some soup.”
“I’m not hungry,” he says, settling back down amongst his pillows.
“Just have a little bit.” I push some hair away from his forehead. His skin is burning up.
Lucas watches me. A small, confused frown plays about his lips before he softens.
“Alright,” he says, sitting up. I rearrange his pillows so he’s sitting against them.
I offer him a spoon of soup, holding it steady. After he swallows the spoonful, he says, “Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“I can feed myself.”
I blush. “Right. Of course.” This is what they do in the movies, I want to explain. But now I feel silly for treating him like a child.
“No, I didn’t mean…” Lucas shakes his head, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips. “Thanks. Did you say you made this?”
“Yeah, I asked my mum for the recipe. It was pretty easy, I just had to dump everything into a pot.” I hold out another spoonful, careful not to spill it on the bedsheets.
“I didn’t know we had sweet corn.”
“I dipped out to the supermarket. Don’t give me that look. It wasn’t even an inconvenience, and I know you would do the same for me.”
“Would I?”
I still but keep my expression carefully blank as I stare down at the bowl of soup. The recipe said to create ribbons of egg by spilling the mixture in slowly, but they look less like ribbons and more like ugly clumps and blobs.
“Part of me thinks that I’d let you suffer just so you wouldn’t suspect that I care,” he says.
“You really think so?”
