Chapter 37

chapter

thirty-seven

ADDIE

I wake up from my deep slumber in a daze.

My head pounds, and my stomach aches.

Chills rack my limp body as I heave myself into a seated position against the headboard.

The sun's still shining, so is it safe to assume it's still Friday? Or did I sleep for twenty-four hours? Either one could be true.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, then find water on my nightstand. At the sight, I smack my lips and realize how dry my mouth is. It's like I've spent the last two hours sucking on cotton balls.

The few sips instantly soothe my scratchy throat, and I throw my feet over the side of the bed, only to land in a bowl—my puke bowl.

Owen .

He was here, in my house, taking care of me. He was gentle and comforting, and?—

"Oh no." I cover my mouth as I gag, my stomach recoiling in wild discomfort. I hoist the bowl up to my chin and race to the bathroom, only to find it's a false alarm.

With a sigh, I return to my bedroom, weak from head to toe. I'm so out of it that I don't even flinch when a head pokes into my room, although at any other time, I would've shrieked and grabbed the lamp from my desk to use as a weapon.

I have no strength for all that right now, but I am surprised to find it's not Owen.

"Mrs. Conrad?" I squint.

"Now, now. I asked you to call me Dorothy." She pushes the door farther open and enters, a tray in her hands with a steaming bowl in the center and a glass vase of two pink flowers in the corner. "I thought I heard you stirring. You should try to eat something, darlin'. Some soup and crackers should help settle your stomach."

What is happening? Am I hallucinating?

"Come and sit." She gestures toward the bed, where the covers are thrown back from my nap. "Sit, sit," she insists.

I do as she instructs, settling back into my previous position on the bed and pulling the covers up to my chest. It's at this point that I realize I'm in mismatched pajamas—I'm wearing a green-and-white Christmas top and shorts decorated in raspberries. Did a monkey dress me?

"This is chicken and rice soup. I make it for my kids all the time." She props the tray onto its legs over my lap, and the smell is actually very pleasant. "Not to brag, but Whitney says it's magic."

I blow on a spoonful and take a bite, although it's mostly chicken broth. I close my eyes and savor the warm, soothing soup. "So good," I whisper and dunk my spoon back in. I'm only one bite in, but I already know this is going to work wonders on my throat.

"Eat some crackers too, and drink plenty of water."

"Mrs.—Dorothy," I correct myself. "Not that I'm not super grateful, but what are you doing here?"

"Did Owen not tell you I was coming?" She tilts her head.

"I don't think so, but then again, my head's a little fuzzy." Which probably explains the outfit. It's possible I thought this combo matched in my disoriented state.

"Owen had to get back to work, but he wanted to make sure you're taken care of. That's where I come in." She spreads her arms.

I lower the spoon slowly as what she says resonates in a puddle of goo in my chest. "That's very… thoughtful," I whisper.

"That's my son for you."

"I hope I didn't intrude on your day. I'm so sorry. If you need to go, I'll be fine," I assure her.

In truth, it's more so for my benefit. I'm not great at accepting help from my own friends, let alone someone I've only met once.

I hate being taken care of—this is actually my nightmare—but I meant what I said about the thoughtful gesture. And I'm too weak to stand my ground.

"Oh, don't be silly. My boss is very understanding." She winks.

"I don't get it."

"I work for my husband, darlin'." She giggles, and it all makes sense. "Now, you eat up while I clean the mess I made in the kitchen right quick. I'll be back to check on you."

Through the fog hanging over my mind, I latch onto the word kitchen .

My mom.

The disaster.

So much mess.

"I'll clean up, Dorothy!" I croak as I plop the spoon into the soup with a splash and a clink.

She stops with her hand on the doorknob. "You will do no such thing. You're going to rest and pay no mind to anything other than that. I'm here to help, so let me help."

Her tone is so strong, her words punctuated with finality. My overwhelming urge to protest still lingers, but arguing feels futile and even a little disrespectful.

I sink back into my seat, but my guilt and self-consciousness don't dull.

Dorothy returns thirty minutes later to take the tray away, and my eyelids feel heavy again. My stomach is a little less queasy, thanks to the soup, but I'm still fatigued.

"Food poisoning," she says.

"Excuse me?"

"That's my best guess for what you might have. You're sweating, and your symptoms are far too abrupt and severe to be a stomach virus." Her confidence alleviates my uncertainty, and I nod. "Which is a good thing."

"How so?" I slide farther into the covers to lay my head on the pillow. I'm not normally so comfortable, even under these conditions, when relative strangers are around, but Dorothy makes it easy to let my guard down.

It's probably where Owen gets it. As similar as I believed him to be to his father, he's actually a lot like his mother.

"It means my son's in the clear." She smiles. "Stomach virus is contagious, but I don't believe I need to worry about him."

My mouth dries again, but it's not because of my ailment. "He's not… I mean, we're not that close. I wouldn't have gotten him sick. I work all the way on the other side of the gym from him," I say as quickly as my feeble body allows.

She waves me off. "No need for any of that, Addie."

Any of what?

That's what I'd like to ask, but nothing comes out of my chapped lips.

"Now, any idea what you might've eaten to cause this? I know it was not my lasagna from last night." She holds a finger up.

"Definitely not your lasagna. That was perfect in every way," I gush, clutching my waist. More cramps amplify across my stomach, and I shift uncomfortably. "I suppose it could have been the eggs I made this morning? I didn't check the date on the carton, as I was in a rush, but I don't think they've been in my fridge that long." I sigh. "I had chicken salad for lunch yesterday that might've been past its prime as well. I should really keep better track of that stuff. I'm normally great at it, but lately, I've had my dang head in the clouds."

She tilts her head, and amusement bounces across her features.

I clamp my mouth shut, then backtrack. "I just mean, I've been taking some time for myself after a busy summer and start to the school year."

She hums. "I'm going to whip you up some toast."

My stomach rolls, and the cramps worsen as a lump climbs up my throat.

"You know, I've never seen him this happy," she muses wistfully right before she disappears through the open door.

I revel in her admission and what that means for Owen and me for only a moment before I need the bathroom to throw up for the sixth time. Or is it the ninth? I've totally lost count.

The guzzling cry of a mower prompts me awake.

I must've dozed off again after my last fit. Puking my guts out really takes it out of me. I've never had food poisoning before, and it's exactly as bad as I always thought it would be—and worse.

When does it go away?

I check the time on my phone, noting it's almost six. Next to my phone, I find a plate wrapped in aluminum foil and a note that just says, "Eat me."

I opt for the water to wet my sore throat, then close my eyes again.

I have the weirdest dreams. One starts with Owen standing at the foot of my bed, his cheeks dotted with dirt and flakes of grass. He kneels beside me and dabs a cool, wet washcloth along my forehead—it's refreshing.

Then he kisses my temple and disappears.

I want to call out to him and beg him to stay, but my voice doesn't work. It's like my lips are sealed shut. My heart aches for him to come back, but everything darkens again.

In another dream, he holds my hair back while I hurl into the toilet. I'd be embarrassed in real life, but since this is a dream, I feel free to do what needs to be done.

And he doesn't say anything. Rather, Owen simply rubs circles on my back, and when I'm finished, he carries me back to my bed, where he gently lays me down. How can he be so gentle? He's a muscular giant with the strength of freaking Captain America. Yet his gentle caress along my forehead is like that of a feather.

"I've got you," he whispers as he smooths my hair back.

All the dreams end the same too, with him walking away and me desperate to call out to him, but I don't. Nothing ever leaves my mouth, and the ache in my chest vibrates with sadness throughout my whole body.