Sorry, no fun times tonight. I’m not feeling well.
What’s wrong?
Based on how I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure it’s something very serious like Ebola or dysentery.
Half an hour later, I’ve made myself a bed on the couch in front of the TV, Patches snuggled up with me, when there’s a knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call miserably.
I know it’s Jared, and I gave him a key a few weeks ago so he can check on Patches when I’m at the vet clinic.
Sure enough, Jared enters, balancing a pot in one hand and a grocery bag in the other like he’s been shopping forthe apocalypse. After depositing everything on the counter, he crosses to me in three strides, staring down at me with concern.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m dying here,” I moan.
“I’m fairly sure it’s just the flu,” he says as he presses his hand against my forehead.
“My whole body is aching, and my head feels like it’s going to explode.”
“Once again, common symptoms of the flu.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s what they said about the Black Death. ‘Oh, it’s just a little plague. You’ll be fine.’”
Jared rocks back on his heels. “I made you something.”
“Brownies?” I say hopefully, perking up slightly.
“Soup,” he replies.
I slump back down against my pillows. “Soup isn’t as fun as brownies.”
“Soup is much better for you than brownies,” he says in a stern voice.
“Ooh, I quite like it when you play nasty doctor,” I say. “Did you bring home your stethoscope? You can examine me anywhere.”
He laughs his deep laugh.
That’s all I need. The sound of his laughter. They do say laughter is the best medicine, after all.
There’s a chance I’m slightly delirious right now.
He adjusts the pillows behind my back like he’s auditioning for a nursemaid of the year award.
And for a second, the memory slips in of the aftermath of my accident, where Carlos pretended to be supportive by posting caring boyfriend photos on Instagram while privately telling me I was being too dramatic.
He’d bring me water when I asked, but he would leave it just out of reach, saying I needed to push myself. When I criedfrom the pain one night, he slept on the couch because my whimpering was “disrupting his REM cycles.”
The worst part was how he made me feel that I should be extremely grateful that he was staying with me.
He only lasted a month before he dumped me on New Year’s Day, telling me that being with me wasn’t fun anymore.
Jared isn’t Carlos, I remind myself. No. Carlos was my boyfriend I lived with. Jared is just my friend I hook up with.
Yet my friend with benefits is currently bustling around my kitchen to prepare me a bowl of chicken soup.
Then he gets out his ear thermometer, checks my temperature with a frown, and proceeds to give me two paracetamol tablets to swallow with a glass of water.
