He raises his eyebrows, obviously waiting for me to finish. “If you don’t want eggs, I have some protein bars, or I can order you in some French toast, or …” He spreads his hands in front of him, palms up. “Just name it, Hailey. Whatever you want, I’ll make it happen.”
“The eggs and toast sound really good. You sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to make you delay your run.”
Scoffing, he waves me off. “It’s not like I have any other plans today. I was going to show you around, but that’s obviously postponed. You want eggs? You got ‘em. Scrambled? Over easy? Over hard? Uh … what other ways do people make eggs? Poached? I don’t know how to do that, but I could Google it.”
Laughing makes me cough some more, though this time I manage to get ahold of it sooner. That’s good, right? “Scrambled is perfect. Thank you.”
He drums a little rhythm on the doorjamb. “Scrambled eggs coming right up. I’ll come get you when they’re ready. Or would you rather eat in bed?”
“I’ll come out,” I croak. That last coughing fit stole my voice again, and I’m afraid to clear my throat because I don’t want to cough more.
Fucking hell. Why’d I have to get sick now?
I mean, I guess now’s better than when I have lessons to teach or gigs to play. But still … I feel bad showing up on Jason’s doorstep and then coughing all over him.
“Make sure you take your vitamins!” I call after him. I absolutely do not want to makehimsick too. That would be the worst. What a way to say thanks—“Hey, thanks for letting me live with you!”Hack, cough, hack, hack.“Here’s the plague as a thank you gift!”
Hopefully with a day or two of rest, I’ll be better. Maybe I should just eat in my room, though. Less time with him is probably for the best.
About ten minutes later, he taps on my door again. “Your food’s ready. Do you want me to sit and chat with you while you eat it? Or do you mind if I head out for my run?”
“Did you cook just for me? You didn’t make yourself anything?”
He shrugs. “I prefer to eat after I run. I don’t like running on a full stomach.”
So, yeah. He cooked just for me. “Um, if you want to hang out, you can, but we should sit at opposite ends of the table if you do. And maybe open a window? I don’t want to get you sick. But if you’d rather just go for a run”—which I strongly suspect is the case—“I’ll be fine on my own.”
“Okay. I think I’ll head out, then. And if you need anything else, feel free to rummage. If there’s something you want or needthat I don’t have, let me know, and I’ll get it. I left a pad of sticky notes and a pen out so you can start a list if you need to.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, but thank you.”
“Course,” he says, like it should be obvious that I can ask for anything and he’ll make it happen. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food then. There’s leftover steak and vegetables in the fridge from last night if you’re still hungry after the eggs.”
I cover my face with my hands. “Oh my god, you made me dinner, and I totally passed out.” Peeking through my fingers, I groan. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He shrugs. “You needed to sleep. And given”—he gestures up and down in my direction—“I’d say I made the right call. Go eat. I’ll be back in a while.”
And with that, he disappears.
I take a couple of minutes to get myself up and out of bed, pausing to let the room settle so I don’t have the Tilt-A-Whirl floor experience again. The congestion in my head seems to be moving in slow motion, like the insides of a lava lamp, every time I change position.
I’ve been sick like this before, so I know the drill. Water, rest, cough drops, honey, tea … pushing through it is always a bad idea, and for the first time since I was a little kid, I don’t have to.
Which is … weird. Nice, of course, but super weird.
Part of my brain is casting about, trying to figure out who I’m letting down by being sick. Who do I need to call? What can I cancel, and what do I have to do regardless?
But the answer to all of those is … no one and nothing.
The only one who needs to know I’m sick is Jason. And he knows.
Beyond that, I have no plans, no obligations, nothing that can’t wait until I’m better. Sure, I’d planned on hitting the ground running, so to speak. Figuring out when and where I can busk—my understanding is that the rain starts to pick up inSeptember, so I won’t have a lot of time to make a few bucks that way before the weather makes that difficult. But at least the winters here aren’t as harsh as back home. I shipped my winter gear, of course, but from what I’ve read, it’s unlikely I’ll need it unless we go somewhere that gets colder. Canada, maybe. Or the mountains. There are definitely a lot more mountains here than there are back home.
I make it to the dining table, shivering again from the cold tile under my bare feet. The chairs are upholstered in a soft teal that pairs nicely with the dark wood of the table. He has square dishes in a matte dark gray, like they’re handmade. He put some cheese on top of the eggs, and it stretches out as I cut a bite, making me smile. The whole-grain toast is buttered to perfection, even if it’s a little cold now after my dilly dallying.
I can’t stop smiling as I eat this delicious breakfast, even as I sniffle and cough through the whole thing.
After I finish, I take my plate to the sink and rinse it off, uncertain if I should put it in the dishwasher or what, so I just leave it in the sink. I’ll ask when he gets back. In fact …
