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Lucas swallows another spoonful. “No. In high school, maybe. Probably.” He leans his head against the headboard with an alarming bang. “I don’t know how you can stand me, Charlie.”
I freeze. I know it’s an innocent question, likely rhetorical, but to me it sounds like an interrogation. The only safe way to reply is because I’m a decent person, which sounds annoying and sanctimonious, and besides, it’d be a lie. The truth is, I care. Which sounds awfully close to admitting I have feelings for him.
“It’s because we agreed to stop fighting,” I say instead, feeding him another spoonful.
“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, more to himself than to me.
“Hush.”
By the time Lucas has finished the bowl, I can tell he’s struggling to stay awake. I tell him to hold on a little longer and disappear into the bathroom. I return with a wet cloth, so he can wash his face, and his toothbrush and a glass of water.
After he finishes brushing his teeth, he rinses his mouth with the water and spits into the glass. He lets me take the glass from him with embarrassed resignation. “I feel like a kid again,” he admits.
*
The next day, Lucas’s temperature remains high as ever. I give him mugs of tea and tell him to rest while I study in my room. Tomorrow will be Monday, and we both have classes. If Lucas is still sick, I’ll have to force him to email his tutor that he’s sick. Maybe he can get a doctor’s note? A Telehealth appointment, or something similar, that’d be most ideal.
Studying isn’t fun. Sitting at my desk, trying to memorise information about the sympathetic nervous system and social learning theory and research methods — I hate research methods — reminds me a little too much of studying for my Year 12 exams. While I usually find my course interesting, right now it’s dryer than a box of Weetbix, and I find myself enjoying the intermittent breaks I take to check on Lucas or tidy up my room or reply to messages.
I haven’t received any messages from Cleo or Gilly, which isn’t surprising, but I have messaged Jemima and Hugo.
To Jemima, I reassured her I’m okay.
To Hugo, I word-vomited everything that happened. Cleo, Gilly, Lucas, all of it. Even the part about Lucas and I sleeping together. Twice. It’s an important detail of the story, and besides, if Hugo has a problem with it, he should know now.
He takes several hours to respond, which, in Hugo's world, is a lifetime. When his message comes through, it says: Wow. That’s a lot. I can’t believe Gilly would do something like that.
And Cleo.
That sucks Charlie. I’m sorry you had to go through such a shit show.
We keep texting through the day, both of us talking about what happened as well as complaining about studying. I thought it would be tiresome to go through everything that happened again, but strangely, I feel better about it after texting Hugo. What happened now feels like a funny story. Funny in a twisted way.
That evening, Lucas has a shower. I sit on top of his bed’s headboard, him on the mattress between my legs, and towel dry his hair while he eats more of my soup. He talks more than usual, probably because he’s been quiet all day.
“I wonder how much protein this has since it’s got eggs and chicken. How many eggs? Okay, not bad. I’m dying to go to the gym. I’ve got so much work to do. All of my exams are in the first week and there’s so much content…”
Lucas’s wet hair is almost brown. I comb my fingers through it. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “You’re smart, you’ll be fine.”
“I’m not smart.”
“Sure, you future engineer. Which reminds me, I had no idea you were such a nerd in high school.”
“Hey. I wasn’t a nerd.”
“You were a secret nerd. A closet nerd, studying away while all your friends were playing in dumpsters or whatever it was those guys did. Don’t give me that look, I use the word ‘nerd’ endearingly. I was a nerd too.”
“I know you were. You spent practically every lunch time last year in the library.”
“Well, you were there too.” I continue to untangle his hair with my fingers. His hair’s so soft, and his shampoo is deliciously fragrant.
Lucas turns and looks at me. “Yeah. Because you were there.”
My cheeks warm, and I’m caught between ducking my head and smiling. “It’s not like you ever talked to me.”
“I talked to you a couple of times. About the English exam. That time at the printer. Whether you’d seen my highlighter.”
“Ah yes, those riveting conversations. How could I ever forget them?”
