“Probably not,” I shake my head, trying to think of a good excuse not to go out.If I told them I’m skipping out on guys’ night to pine over a girl, they would never let me live it down.
It’s been a week since Sara and I “talked,” and since then, I’ve been lurking in my front yard, hoping to catch her and strike up a casual conversation.I caught a glimpse of her on her porch swing the other day.I’m pretty sure our neighbor, Sue, thinks I’ve completely lost it—standing outside tending to my yard in the dead of winter.
I was surprised to see her outside in the cold, but I have to admit she looked cozy—adorable, even—all wrapped up in her little cocoon.A small space heater hummed softly at her feet, a blanket draped over her lap.She was wearing one of those oversized blanket hoodies my sister bought for my nephew to keep him warm around the house.A book rested in her hands, and steam curled lazily from the mug beside her.
In my not-so-incognito staring, I recognized that mug—it wasmymug.
I left it on top of her mailbox weeks ago when I was walking Eliana’s dog.They were taking their first vacation with my nephew, and I had reluctantly agreed to dog-sit.Which, in retrospect, was the most disastrous week of my life.My sister had failed to mention that her dog, a Shiba Inu, was still in puppy mode and, at two years old, needed three walks a day.During one of our walks, I got a phone call and between juggling a leash and a ball of excited fur, I didn’t want to drop the mug.It was special.A Christmas gift from my nephew—something he picked out for me when he was in his weird mushroom obsession phase.
I remember the last delivery I made to Sara—she’d texted me with the funniest commentary about why Target organizes the store like it’s trying to test customers’ survival skills.I’ve never had this much fun talking to a girl.Usually, I’m a little reserved and awkward, but something about the way Sara carries herself in conversation makes her easy to talk to.I don’t second-guess my messages.
So yeah—I’m going to decline going out for drinks to go home and pretend to casually walk past her house and strike up a conversation.
Maybe today I’ll get lucky.
5
DAVE
“Black coffee for Dave,” the barista says, sliding a steaming cup of coffee toward the pick-up counter.It’s my second cup of the day, and my brain is still in loading mode from memorizing these respiratory drug names for my upcoming exam.Seriously, does the person who names these drugs get a bonus at their company?Why are they so hard to pronounce?Andspell?Sounding it out doesn’t even help.
Even though I want to pull my hair out every other day, I’m thankful that I was accepted into the respiratory therapy program.When my grandpa—who we call Zayde—was diagnosed with lung cancer when I was twenty, we all thought that was the end.But he was resilient; he didn’t let the cancer take him down.He responded to treatment, and although he got sick more often, he was a fighter.
During the last two years of his life, he was in and out of the hospital often with respiratory illnesses.If it wasn’t pneumonia, it was his chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, orCOPD, acting up.The respiratory therapists at the hospital were the reason I decided to go into this program.It wasn’t only a way to honor my Zayde, but also to help someone else’s version of Zayde.
I’m thankful my time has been preoccupied with rotations and exams since all my spare time keeps reverting back to Sara, and I’m starting to think she blocked me on her DoorDash app.How do I know?Well, call it being a good neighbor and not a stalker.And technically, I was on neighborhood watch duty for a week, per Sue.Which means it was totally valid that I checked in to see deliveries at her doorstep.
I’m walking back toward my corner of the coffee shop, which I’ve commandeered since they opened at seven this morning, when my phone buzzes.As if the universe heard me thinking about her, a DoorDash delivery request pops up—fromher.
I accept the request and scan her list for today.Flu medicine, can of chicken noodle soup, crackers, and electrolyte drinks.
My brain screams:She’s sick.She needs me.
Without a second thought, I know exactly what I need to do.With a short window before I get dinged for not delivering on time, I pack up my bags and head home.
Thirty minutes later, the smell of chicken and herbs floats through my kitchen, reminding me of time with my grandmother, Bubbe.She used to make me chicken soup with matzo balls whenever I was under the weather.When Zayde’s vision worsened, and he was no longer able to drive her to the market, I would make grocery trips with her, and we would come home to cook all kinds of dishes.Anytime I cook her recipes, it’s like she’s standing right next to me, guiding me.
Ladling soup and matzo balls into a container, I set it aside to cool while I gather all the other items necessary for her recovery.Using an old picnic basket I have stored in the garage, I pack it with the flu medicines, tissues, cough drops, Tylenol and a six-pack of BODYARMOR.
The soup isn’t part of her order.It’s definitely pastborderlineoverstepping, but I can picture her opening the basket, finding it, and smiling.And something about being the person who puts a smile on her face causes me to throw caution to the wind.
Honestly, she might report me.
But fuck it.
I open the delivery app.I see I have ten minutes left before I’m due to deliver.I hit the “cancel order” button and pray this time she really won’t call the police on me.
6
SARA
I.AM.DYING.
This is what death must feel like.My body is heavy and weightless at the same time, like gravity can’t decide what to do with me.Every movement sends tingles down my limbs, and my head spins if I so much asblink.I curl tighter into my blanket nest, hugging Sir Sloths-A-Lot, and groan into the pillow.
I can’t remember the last time I was sick; it feels like an eternity.When your job and social life are in the comfort of the four walls in your house, you really don’t have a chance to share germs with others.Yet here I am, on my deathbed.Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but right now, if Ed McMahon came in offering me a million dollars to get up and do the chicken dance, I would not be on the receiving end of one of his big checks.
I’m drifting off to sleep when my phone rings with a familiar tone.The sound of Saweetie’s “Best Friend”comes through my phone, signaling the only person I would pick up calls from.
