Scottie
“I’m fine, Mom. I promise.”
I’m sitting on my bed, robe wrapped tight around me, staring out the window with one AirPod in. I keep my voice bright and my tone easy.
“You don’t sound fine,” my mom says. “You sound like you’re pretending you’re fine.”
I exhale a laugh. No matter how much I wish my mom would drop everything for me, for once, I can’t say she’s not perceptive.
“I’m a workaholic with the flu,” I say in a teasing voice. “What else would you expect?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line before she answers. She doesn’t sound suspicious as much as … sad.
“I wish I were there,” she says. “I could make you soup. Or sit with you. You wouldn’t have to do anything.”
The wordanythinglands wrong in my chest. That’s the kind of promise she saves for someone else. Not because she doesn’t love me—but because I’m never the one in need.
“I don’t need that,” I say quickly, not letting the offer sit long enough to feel real. If I do, I might want it. And wanting it would mean I have to ask. “I’m okay. I promise. I’ll be good as new after some rest.”
Her next pause is even longer, almost like she’s processing something. “You never need anything,” she says softly.
“That’s not true.” I pause, closing my eyes. I could be honest. I could tell her …
“I need coffee through an IV,” I say.
“You are your mother’s daughter,” she chuckles. “Oh, and I meant to tell you. I finally tried salted caramel syrup like you told me to last week. It was delicious!”
“Isn’t it amazing?” I say, letting the conversation move on like we weren’t on the verge of something real. “Did you try it with the dark espresso—like a double shot? It’s smoother, not bitter, I swear.”
She tsks. “No, they were out of dark roast. How can a coffee shop just be out of dark roast?”
“Oh, Mom. You’ve gotta try it.” I pull up my phone and find coffee shops within ten miles of the school where Mom teaches. “Try Commonwealth Coffee on Chestnut Street. They’ve got great reviews.”
“Are you mothering me from South Carolina when it’s my job to mother you?” she asks, amused. “Sweetie. Don’t put me out of a job.”
I smile. “I’m not, Mom. I just?—”
The doorbell rings.
“Sorry, hold on,” I tell her. “Someone’s at the door.”
“Are you expecting someone?” she asks.
“No,” I say, already standing. “I don’t think so.”
I hold the phone lower without hanging up and walk out of my room and toward the front door, my slippers scuffing against the floor.
Lucas is already there.
He’s standing in the open doorway, one hand holding a cardboard drink carrier, the other signing something on a phone the delivery guy is holding out to him. He’s too focused on the task at hand to look back at me. I doubt he heard me at all.
He’s just casually solving a problem I never even asked him to notice.
Like he always does.
“Thanks,” he says to the driver. “Have a good one.”
The door closes, and he turns and almost jumps when he sees me.
