Page 32 of XOXO, Yours

Payton: Need anything?

Me: No.

An hour later there's a knock. By the time I shuffle to the door in my robe, looking like a Victorian consumption patient, Payton's already halfway back down my porch steps. There's a paper bag on the welcome mat: a quart of chicken noodle soup from Ruthie's, orange juice, cough drops, and the fancy lotion tissues I'd never buy for myself.

There's a note on the soup lid.

Store-bought. Don't panic.

—P

"I'm not coming in," he calls from the bottom step. "You're gross."

"Rude," I croak.

He grins, touches two fingers to his forehead in a salute, and climbs back in his truck.

I eat the whole quart on my couch with my feet tucked under a blanket. It's from a diner. It is not special.

It's the best soup I've ever had in my life.

I throw away two old take-out menus from the junk drawer because it’s kind of overflowing. I’m not thinking about the items I decided where trash and which ones to keep.

chapter

thirteen

Payton

I don't remember falling asleep.

One minute we're on her couch with some heist movie playing that she swears is a classic. She's got her feet in my lap, and I've got my thumb pressed into the arch of her foot, because she mentioned her classroom floor is concrete. I've been thinking about that for two weeks.

Then something pokes me in the forehead.

I open my eyes. Jules is leaning over me, one finger still extended, the credits rolling behind her.

"Twenty-three minutes," she says.

"What?"

"You were asleep for twenty-three minutes. You snore."

I blink up at her. "You timed me?"

"I count things now." She scowls like it's my fault, which it is. "It's contagious."

"Only the stuff you like," I say.

Her scowl deepens. She points at the door. "You can't sleep here."

"I wasn't sleeping here. I was resting my eyes on your couch."

"Payton."

"Going."

I find my boots and my keys. She doesn't walk me out. She never does.