“I’m going to go pick up your antibiotics, okay?” I say, moving the chair back and putting some space between us.
“I just hope you know how much I appreciate it,” he says, not fully allowing the previous conversation to drop without notice.
I nod, and walk back out.
It doesn’t get quite so heavy again.
With antibiotics in his system, the cold medicine bringing his fever down, and sleep clearly imminent, I leave him alone for the rest of the evening, with my phone number scribbled on a Post-it in case he needs something.
The next morning I bring homemade chicken broth and some of that strawberry-rhubarb cornbread.
“You saved my life, and now you’re bringing me soup and baked goods?” he asks after opening the door, already looking worlds healthier than he did yesterday.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I say with a sigh. He grins, takes the food containers out of my hands, and beckons me inside. “You seem a lot better today?” I venture.
He starts heating up the broth and then turns back to me. “I’ve gotta say—if my opinion on these things matters—antibiotics are pretty great.”
I shake my head, trying to tamp down my smile as I sit down at his kitchen table. “Is that a matter of opinion?”
“With the craziness of the world today? You never know what counts as facts anymore,” he says, grabbing the broth out of the microwave and sitting across from me.
“I think we’re all pretty universally in agreement on antibiotics.”
“You’d hope,” he retorts, then lifts the bowl to take a sip straight out of it. He closes his eyes and murmurs, “This is so good, Nora.”
“You’re just dehydrated and hungry after being sick.”
He sets the bowl down and leans forward, catching my eyes. “You’re really bad at taking a compliment,” he says, the challenge inherent.
But I’m not going to bite. Probably because, as I’m learning with Eli, he usually only dishes it out when he’s mostly right.
“Fine,” I counter. “Thank you.”
I like how when he grins, one side of his mouth curves up more, making his little displays of joy slightly goofier and more open. I like how he seems to have more of them in store now that he’s feeling better.
“Do you need anything else?” I ask, changing the subject.
“No, I’m good,” he says sincerely. “I really do feel a lot better today. I think I’m just going to take the doctor’s orders and stay inside, watch a movie, and take it easy today.”
“Is that what Dr. Banks said?” I ask.
He chuckles. “I meantyou. I’m taking your prescription of staying off my laptop and accepting my convalescence very seriously.”
“Good.”
He’s night and day from where he was yesterday, but he definitely needs to not push it.
“What exciting Saturday plans do you have today?” he asks, picking at a piece of the cornbread now that he’s drained the soup.
“No plans,” I say. “Although I didpretendto be extremely busy, because my mother has been texting me nonstop for recipes without nightshades, since she now believes they’re the source of all her inflammation.”
He lifts an eyebrow, the skepticism written all over his face. “Does she have a lot of inflammation?”
“Not anything identifiable by anyone other than herself,” I say, in an attempt to be diplomatic.
“And what are you supposed to do about it?” he asks, taking progressively larger bites of the cornbread to the point where his voice is a little muffled. At least this time it’s from carbs and not a sore throat.
“What am I ever supposed to do about any of it?” I say with a roll of my eyes. “She decides something, upends her life, insists on everyone else upending theirs, and will probably forget about it by next week. She’s concerned because tomatoes are a nightshade, and I’ve entered my summer ‘eat tomatoes on everything’ stage.”
