“I don’t know. Kind of looks like the flu, but she says it isn’t.” She shrugs. “Probably just exhaustion from having to do a group project all by herself.”
I doubt that’s the case, but I keep my mouth shut.
“She told me about it Sunday evening on our way to a movie, and I was like, ‘Girl, you should’ve punched that shithead.’”
“She didn’t.” I don’t tell her that the shithead is me, in case she decides to punch me for Aspen.
“She’s just too nice. That’s her problem.” She walks up to the second floor, then stops at a room at the end of the hall. “That’s her.” She points at a door. “If she doesn’t answer after a few knocks, just chill out in the lounge, or you can go. She’s probably napping, which she needs more than you, as pretty as you are.”
I quirk an eyebrow at how disapproving she sounds while calling me pretty. “I’ll keep all that in mind.”
The girl goes into her room. I knock softly on Aspen’s door, not wanting to wake her up if she really is sleeping.
Nothing.
After waiting a few moments, I start back toward the lounge to scroll through news about the Asian markets on my phone for an hour or so before I check again.
The door opens to reveal Aspen. “Suyen…?” She blinks. “Grant?”
“Yeah.” I take a good look at her. Dark circles under her eyes like bruises. Chalky complexion, no color to her chapped lips. Hair like a rat’s nest. Her black shirt and yellow shorts are wrinkled to the max.
“What are you doing here?” she croaks.
I wince and clear my throat, feeling a little awkward all of a sudden. We were partners on a project, which I didn’t work on. And we aren’t friends or anything. There’s no real reason for me to be here. “Heard you were ill, so I decided to stop by. Thought you might like some soup.” I lift the bag I’m carrying.
She looks at it, her expression unreadable.
“It’s canned. But better that than half-killing you with my cooking.” I hope she’s not offended. Mom would rather die than touch anything canned or instant. She prefers everything to be cooked from scratch.
Aspen tries to swallow, then gives up. “Thanks. Um. Wanna come in?”
“Sure.” Every time she speaks, her eyebrows pull together tightly. Her throat must be killing her.
Her room is dimly lit and awfully small. The blinds are the color of horse shit—literally—and I shake my head inwardly at just how awful the housing division people are at the college. Cinder-block walls don’t particularly alleviate the effect.
But there are bright posters covering those walls, and a yellow daisy on her desk that makes the place feel less like a jail for students whose only crime is not being able to afford expensive off-campus housing. Her room’s tidy as well, nothing out of place. Bet she’s the type to make her bed the second she gets up in the morning, which, for some reason, feels oddly endearing. Other than a bottle of Advil with a label so worn that it’s almost white, there doesn’t seem to be any medicine around.
She sits on the bed, then gestures at the hard wooden chair that came with the desk.
I promptly park my ass on it. “You got anything for your throat? And other stuff for whatever you have? The flu, right?”
She shakes her head. “It’s nothing contagious. I get it sometimes. I should be fine by Friday night. I have to be.”
“By Friday? Got a big exam to study for over the weekend?”
“No, a call with my grandparents. I don’t want them to start worrying.”
“I see. So…no fever or anything?”
“Just a headache. And my throat hurts. No appetite.”
“You should probably eat something, though.” Emmett always makes a point of eating even when he’s sick and doesn’t feel like it. Says you can’t recover otherwise, and he does seem to get better rather quickly.
“Yeah… Maybe later.” She doesn’t meet my eyes.
“Did you take anything?”
“An Advil this morning.”
