“Good. Now tell me about this new man of yours. If he’s got you out here admitting your faults and making apologies, he’s got to be some kind of miracle worker.”
“He’s really special.”
“So what’s his name?”
David blew his nose again and sighed. As the afternoon wore on, it had become increasingly clear he wasn’t having allergies. He had a cold.
A fucking cold.
He called Jeri to let her know.
“See, this is what you get for working too hard,” she said. “Your body’s not giving you a choice about getting rest.”
“I get plenty of rest.” Five hours a night wasn’t that bad.
“Ugh, you sound horrible.”
David sighed. His throat was sore, too, and his voice had gotten hoarse from talking with Ayesha for over an hour.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to someone who wasn’t Farzan for so long. Would’ve kept talking, too, except she had to go collect Micah from kindergarten.
“Get some rest, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”
“I will. Sorry, Jeri.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just be well. Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.”
David hated being sick. His body wasn’t built for long hours of rest: he needed to be doing things. Being sick was boring.
Still, more time at home meant more time for studying. He couldn’t practice his tastings, not with his sinuses clogged, but Mount Flash Card still towered in the corner of the living room, threatening to blow its top off.
He grabbed a handful of note cards about the wines of Eastern Europe—from Slovenian Cabernet to Hungarian Tokaji—and leaned back on the couch, pulling the fuzzy blanket into his lap. He wasn’t cold, but the blanket was cozy.
His phone buzzed again; this time he made sure to look at it before answering. It was a text from Farzan.
Farzan
Miss you too
David smiled so hard his jawbone popped, and warmth that had nothing to do with the cozy blanket flushed his skin.
Farzan
Sorry, was making kabob
What are you up to?
David
Just chilling at home.
Guess who has a cold?
You feeling okay?
Farzan
