She let out a heavy sigh as she opened the menu. “You’re a foolish man, Kostas.”
Maybe I was a fool, but she was worth it. Sooner or later, I’d get her to believe that.
Drew
“HEY MAN, YOUalive?”
I winced at the light tap on my door. Even the almost muffled sound made my head throb.
“For now,” I croaked out a reply before the hacking started. I never got sick, and even on those rare occasions I did, I sucked it up and kept going. A fever of 102 combined with aches and chills knocked me right on my ass. I missed a day of classes and two days in the kitchen lab. It sucked but I felt too much like shit to care. “What’s up, Carlos?” My heavy legs lumbered over the side of my bed, the room spinning from my first attempt in the past day to sit upright.
“You have a visitor.”
I squinted at my roommate’s quirked brow, half hoping my mother didn’t listen to me earlier and drove over to the apartment with a quart of chicken soup anyway.
“A visitor?” I shivered as I reached for my hoodie next to the bed.
Carlos nodded. “Yep, waiting for you in the kitchen with a big pot of soup.”
“Ugh,” I groaned and shook my head. “I told her not to drive here after she got out of work.” I trudged out of my room toward the kitchen. I appreciated Mom coming here to take care of me, but it was late, and I didn’t like the idea of her driving home by herself. Soup, however, sounded fucking wonderful. I didn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. Maybe yesterday afternoon before I took three ibuprofens and passed out.
“Mom, I told you not to—” I scolded before I trailed off. Even being sick with swollen, red eyes, Sara was a vision. I blinked a couple of times to make sure the fever wasn’t causing hallucinations.
“Wow.” She grimaced as she ambled over to me. “You look like shit, Kostas.”
“Thanks for the compliment,” I laughed, triggering another coughing fit.
“Easy,” she whispered as she tapped and rubbed my back. Even two beats away from death, her soothing touch caused my heart to seize.
“Sit. I snuck in the lab early tonight and made as much as I could.” She led me to the table. “It’s run-of-the-mill chicken noodle soup, but you have enough for today and tomorrow.” She draped her hand over my forehead when I plopped into the chair. “Clammy but not too warm. Hopefully, you’re past the worst of it.”
I smiled at the concerned furrow of her brow. She breezed around the kitchen in caretaker mode, which I guessed as a parent came as second nature to her. I glanced at the huge pot of soup on the stove, loving the hell out of the fact she came all the way here to take care of me. Even though I was weak, I rose from the chair to where she stood. I kept a safe distance in case I was still contagious, but I was so drawn to her, the kitchen table was too far away.
“I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Homemade soup sounds amazing.”
Her head jerked in my direction as she gaped at me. “Yesterday? That’s not good. I always made Victoria eat a little when she was sick as long as she wasn’t throwing up. I’d heard you’re supposed to starve a fever, but I think all of that is bullshit.” She stirred the soup and adjusted the knob on the stove.
“Old wives’ tale, maybe. Is that what your mother used to tell you?” I elbowed her side with a snicker, but she didn’t smile back. Her body stiffened as she shook her head.
“No. I just heard it a few times. And most old wives’ tales are bullshit.” I’d never heard her mention family other than Victoria, and the way she flinched at the mention of her mother confirmed they probably weren’t in the picture. The only constant in her life was her daughter, and I hated that for her. I wanted to be her constant. It was a burning urge I wouldn’t be able to hold back for much longer.
“You made all that for me?” I rubbed the two-day old scruff on my chin. “You must like me or something.”
She rolled her eyes as she fought a smile. “I may have missed having you around. I figured this maybe would get you better faster. And I’ve made this so many times I could do it with my eyes closed. Now I’m assuming by the coat of dust I had to wipe off the stove, you boys don’t cook very much, but do you at least have bowls and spoons for cereal?” She clicked her tongue, and sick and all, I wanted to kiss the hell out of her.
“We do.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the counter. “How do you know when it’s ready?”
“When it comes up to a simmer, you can eat.”
“Simmer? Look at you with the chef words.”
She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Simmer isn’t a chef word. Everyone knows what it means.”
“I don’t.” I shrugged. “Teach me, Caldwell. What does simmer mean?”
Her eyes darted from where I stood to the pot. Even though I was sick as a dog, we still had that current running between us. We’d made a couple of wimpy acknowledgments, but for the most part skated around it.
She licked her lips and set the spoon down next to the pot. “Simmer is heating through but making sure it doesn’t come to a boil.”
