“I’m sure I wasn’t.”
“How would you know? You don’t remember any of it.”
I open my mouth, then close it. He has me there.
“Anyway, I made some soup. Nothing fancy. Just from a can.”
My stomach rumbles at the thought. “That sounds amazing.”
“I’ll bring it up.”
I want to go with him. I want to say I can go downstairs. That it’s no big deal. But I truly have no strength. Just sitting up takes effort. I don’t think I could make it down those stairs and back.
“Thanks,” I say. He turns to leave, but I reach out, grabbing the ends of his fingers. “Really, Nikhil. Thank you. For all of this.”
“It’s nothing.”
He tries to pull his hand back, but I tighten my grip. “No, it’s not. It’s—”
“I owed you,” he says. “For that time I had the flu. Now we’re even.”
I laugh. “Oh gosh. You were such a wreck during that.”
He grins, one side of his mouth climbing slightly higher than the other. “I was, wasn’t I? I think I must have been the world’s worst patient.”
I soften, a memory rising. Nikhil curled into the fetal position, his hand gripping mine tight, his body shivering with chills. I’d never seen him that way before. He’d neverletme see him that way before.
“You weren’t,” I say. “Not really. You barely asked for anything. The only frustrating thing was that you refused to just lie down and get some rest. I’d turn my back for a second and catch you trying to get out of bed.” I shake my head. “You even tried to help me with my studying. Your temperature was so high you were shaking, but for some reason you thought it was the perfect time to try and quiz me on civil procedure.”
His crooked smile grows, light and teasing, and so familiar it hurts. “I can still remember all five factors needed for personal jurisdiction,” he says.
“Oh no.” I laugh again. “Please don’t remind me.”
His smile starts to fade, and I quickly add, “Not that I didn’t appreciate it. The way you helped me study.” Most nights after dinner, Nikhil used to sit on the couch with me, open bar prep books on our laps. He’d quiz me or help me write flash cards. One time I accidentally fell asleep early and woke up to a stack of bright pink index cards filled with his handwriting. Neat and precise and careful.
When I left for D.C. I discovered that one of them had found its way into my bag. The corners of it are soft now, the hard card stock somewhat fragile from the number of times I’ve pulled it out and looked at it.
“It was nothing,” Nikhil says.
“It wasn’t.” My hand squeezes his. For so long I’ve lied to myself, rewritten the past. I’ve told myself that I would have passed the bar that first time if not for Nikhil. I’ve told myself that meeting him and falling in love that summer had been a distraction, that our love had made me lose sight of what mattered, but the truth is…
“I wouldn’t have passed that second time without you,” I tell him.
His cheeks flush. “I don’t know about that.”
“I wouldn’t have,” I say again. “But…when you were sick, Iwish you would have thought it was okay to just rest and get better.” I think of that time he came home from work with a limp, an injury he’d refused to tell me about, the way he’d pivoted the conversation back to the bar instead. “I know the bar exam consumed my life back then, but I’m sorry if I made you ever feel like it was more important or more urgent than what you were going through. It didn’t matter more than how you were feeling, Nikhil. It didn’t matter more than you being sick.”
He shakes his head. “I…I know, but being sick, it was more that…I felt guilty. I hated that you had to take time away from studying to take care of me.” Regret clouds his voice as he says, “I never wanted that for you. For us.”
My heart floats up to my throat. “Ilikedtaking care of you.” I pause. “It was really the only time you let me take care of you. I…Sometimes, I wish you had let me be there for you the way you always were for me.”
Something heavy settles over his expression, and I feel it. A tangible weight bearing down on the room. I try to shake it off. “Anyway,” I say brightly, “the whole flu episode could have been avoided.”
He takes the opening just like I’d hoped he would. “If I’d only listened to you and gotten a flu shot.” He inclines his head in my direction. “You’ll be happy to know I get one every year now.”
“Good.”
He smiles again, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and I’d forgotten. His eyes are so brown, so rich, and dark. But they have these little flecks of gold. They’re not always there, but sometimes, in the right lighting, they just appear. Almost like magic.
