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Bryson disappears from my room, and one minute later, the door to our apartment opens and closes.I shut my eyes and try to focus on breathing in and out, in and out, like my favorite yoga instructor always tells me.It works pretty well up until a breath catches an itch in my throat and it turns into a hacking cough.
For someone who’s sick a lot, I figure I should really be better at it by now.
A few minutes pass, and the apartment door opens again.Bryson shows up in my bedroom with two blue liquid-gel pills a moment later.“The box is above the microwave.And Dayquil for later,” he assures me.“Take these.”
I drag myself up on my elbows to down the medication, a process Bryson apparently has decided to supervise.I drink the rest of the water he brought earlier, and he mercifully decides to refill it before leaving.
Bryson sets it down on the bedside table beside the garlic.“Rest that pretty little head, alright?”he rambles, lifting the comforter above my shoulders.“You’ll feel better in a little while.That’s a Kennedy promise.”
A smile appears, half into my pillow.
“I’m off around three, probably make it home by four.You need anything else, you give me a holler, alright?”
“I will,” I yawn, my eyes already closed.“Thank you.”
“It’s nothing, Carleigh.”He flicks the lights off and closes the door.If he makes it out of the apartment before I fall asleep, I don’t hear it.
When I wake up just after lunchtime, the drowsiness is still there, but mostly I’m hungry.I send a quick text to my boss at the bar, since I won’t be making it tonight, and will check in tomorrow.A couple of other messages were in the notification list.There’s one from my mother and one from Molly, but there’s two from Bryson that I open first.
It’s from around 10:00 am.
Bryson:Spicy Thai takeout for supper?Always makes me feel good when I’m all stuffed up.
Bryson: don’t forget to eat garlic.
I eye the garlic on my bedside table suspiciously.I’m not just going to eat a clove of garlic.That’s disgusting.Maybe crush it up and use it in an omelet or something would be significantly less disgusting.
Me: Thai sounds delicious.We can order when you get home.My treat.
I respond to the other messages before pulling myself out of bed and shuffling to the bathroom.A hot shower, some food, then more drugs, and I’ll be good as new.
It does help, but not as much as I hoped.The small burst of energy is helpful to make an egg white omelet with garlic and cilantro, brew coffee, then settle on the couch in my favorite red sweatpants and a white t-shirt that I usually reserve for baking days.It’s comfortable and actually fits pretty nicely, with short sleeves and the words butfirst, coffeeon the front, but it got stained irreparably with olive oil last year, so it’s been banished from public view.
I’m halfway through an episode ofThe Real Housewives of Atlantawhen my phone buzzes.It’s him, replying to the proof-of-life picture I sent him of crushed garlic.
Bryson: That’s the stuff… you feeling any better?
Me: A bit after sleep and food, thanks to you!
I move to set the phone aside, but on a whim, I snatch it back.
Me: How’s work today?Did you get in trouble for being late?
Bryson: No.Who could get mad at this face?
There’s probably some truth to that.How should I respond?I don’t, but instead slide my phone onto the coffee table and drop my head to the arm of the couch.I may have slept all morning, but my eyelids still feel a little heavy, so I give up and let myself take an afternoon nap.
When my eyes open next, it’s after four.I can’t see Bryson, but the water is running in the bathroom, so he must be home.I sit up on my elbow and grab my phone off the table.
Mom: How you feeling?
As I tap out a reply, the water turns off, then a few minutes later, the door to the bathroom creaks open.
Bryson is humming to himself down the hallway.I should really get up and do something productive; he’s had a full day of work and I’ve been just laying here like a sloth.Sickness or not, that’s not like me.Heck, I didn’t even wash the plate from my omelet.
That realization is enough to get my feet on the floor.I make my way to the kitchen and reach into the sink for my plate, but it’s empty.
“Bryson,” I mutter.
