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What am I going to do? Run back upstairs?
I don’t even have the energy. And my stomach is starting to roll again.
He comes around to the foot of the stairs, and I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed he’s got a shirt on.
“You scared me to death,” I say, wishing I had a paper bag to put over my head.
“Sorry,” he says, looking slightly shy and out of place. “I uh. . .I brought soup.” He half points toward the kitchen.
I look at him and my overactive imagination rumbles to life like a refurbished muscle car, humming and purring with ideas that are turning this entire scene into something it’s not. In my mind, I’m more presentable, and I don’t feel like I’ve just traveled through the seven circles of hell. And I’m less gawky than I am in real life.
“Good to see you moving around,” he says.
“Barely.” I frown. “What are you doing here?”
“Reagan said you were sick,” he says, as if this answers my question.
“Yeah.” I take a small step, but instantly regret it. The room gets a bit spinny, and my head swims.
I reach out, and he reaches for me, and when his hand connects to my waist my fever spikes.
Or maybe it isn’t my fever at all.
“Why don’t you come sit down?”
I nod and he leads me into the kitchen where the smell of whatever’s cooking on the stove intensifies. “What are you making?”
“Soup,” he says again. “And some bread. Do you feel like you can eat?”
I sit down at the table, and instantly want to collapse into a pile on the floor. I’m going to be terrible company, and since this is the first time Owen’s come to visit me, I’m a little annoyed about the circumstances. I remember when I announced to my entire podcast audience that having a guy take care of you like Tom Hanks in You’ve Got Mail is such a sweet and romantic thing to do.
I’m rethinking that.
In every fantasy I’ve ever had about this very trope, I did not look like death warmed over or smell faintly like vomit.
I casually try to sniff myself. Do I actually smell like vomit?
Owen stands in the center of the kitchen, looking as out of place as a bobcat in a library.
It dawns on me that this is incredibly sweet of him.
“You look terrible,” he says.
“I know.” I groan, resting my head down on the tabletop. It feels cool and temporarily nice. “I’m sorry you have to see me like this.”
“I’m not.”
I peer up at him.
“Not. . .uh. . .sorry to see you. Not happy that you’re sick, but, you know. . .” He trails off.
I try to nod. “I know what you’re saying,” I whisper, but nodding makes my head swim even more. “Maybe you should go, I might. . .”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He walks back over to the stove and stirs the pot. “You shouldn’t be alone when you’re sick.”
I don’t have the strength to protest or stay in this chair. “I think I might need to lay back down. And don’t hate me, but I don’t think I can eat right now.”
He drops the spoon, turns off the burner, and rushes back over to me, attentive. “Couch or bed?”
