It started in the middle of the night, a nausea so strong I had vertigo. It was noon before I was able to text the girls—I didn’t want Miss B to think I was ditching the show. When I’m not throwing up or curled into a ball of pain, I try to imagine what’s going on at rehearsal. I can picture you lounging offstage, trading jokes with the guys, or maybe in a hallway by yourself, going over your lines. I see Nat and Lys practicing a tap routine. Miss B looking slightly frazzled.
I drift in and out of sleep. When I look out the window I notice the sky is getting darker—rehearsal will be over soon. I’m pissed that I missed a whole day of seeing you. You sent me a selfie at lunch—in it, you made yourself look totally depressed. You texted, This place sucks without you. A few hours later, during one of my many trips to the bathroom, you left a voice mail singing a naughty sea shanty. I listen to it for the fifth time, propped up on two pillows. This is evidence of how close we’ve gotten over the past few weeks. It wasn’t that long ago that we didn’t even have each other’s phone numbers. Now I have hundreds of texts from you. I set down my phone and slide back under my thick duvet, fluffing the pillows until I get comfortable.
The doorbell rings and I hear my mom pad down the hallway. She’s paranoid about getting sick—she can’t handle the germs, so I’ve pretty much been a prisoner in my room. She’s been talking to me through the door all day, leaving the occasional tray outside of it with crackers or a glass of water or a bottle of Pepto-Bismol, which makes me nauseous just looking at it. I’m not allowed to open the door until she’s out of range. I think she’s about two seconds away from calling the Centers for Disease Control.
I’m just falling back asleep when there’s a knock on my door.
“Grace?” Mom says. “Are you decent?”
“What? Yeah.” I’m wearing a pair of baggy pajama shorts and a tank top that my grandma bought me when she went to Wisconsin that says Somebody in Racine Loves Me. Because I’m sexy like that. It occurs to me that I desperately need a shower.
I hear some mumbling outside the door and then it opens. I sit up on my elbows, my hair a rat’s nest, my eyes bleary.
It’s you.
“Now, I’m only shutting the door because I don’t want Sam coming in here and getting sick,” my mom says.
I stare at her. I don’t know how you sweet-talked your way into this house, let alone my room.
“Hey, beautiful,” you murmur after the door shuts behind you.
The surprise of seeing you in my bedroom almost trumps the fact that I look like death. Wait, did you just call me beautiful? I search blindly for a rubber band. I realize I’m not wearing a bra. I pray I don’t smell like I’ve been vomiting for the past fifteen hours.
“Gavin, what are you—”
“Doing here? Like I wasn’t going to make sure you’re okay. What do you take me for?”
You set your backpack, a grocery bag, and your guitar down before kicking off your shoes and crawling onto the bed. You sit cross-legged in front of me, your hands resting lightly on my knees.
“Um, I might be contagious—”
You shrug. “Misery loves company.”
A sharp pain shoots through my stomach and I lean back onto the pillows. “It kind of hurts to sit up,” I say.
You lie down next to me, your head propped up on your elbow. I lie in the fetal position and we stare at each other for a moment. You’re not wearing your fedora and your hair falls into your eyes. I want to brush it back, but I don’t.
“Everyone missed you,” you say.
“How was rehearsal?”
“Madness. Utter chaos. This production can’t survive without you.”
“I’m glad I’m indispensable.” I smile. “How did you convince my mom to let you in here?”
“I told her I needed her help in making a grand romantic gesture,” you say. For me. A grand romantic gesture for me.
“I also threatened to start serenading her.”
I laugh. “I can’t believe you charmed my mother. That’s seriously hard to do.”
You know women, Gavin. I’ll give you that. You know just what we need to hear, don’t you?
“She seemed nice, but…” You frown, searching for the right words. “Formidable.”
I snort. “Then you caught her on a good day.”
I’ve told you a little about my family situation, but not all the gory details. I’ve been trying to figure out how to introduce you to my mom without making a thing about it. I’m sort of glad it happened this way.
“I like your hair,” you tease, fingering my tangled locks.
“Not all of us can wake up in the morning looking like James Dean,” I say.
You laugh quietly. “Do you still feel like shit?”
“I think I’m in the post-feeling-like-shit stage, but before the feeling-better stage.”
“I can help with that.”
You sit up and rummage through the grocery sack. You hold up a bottle of ginger ale and a plastic container with what looks like soup inside.
“Chicken soup?”
“I asked my mom to make it for you,” you say. “It’s a total miracle cure.”
My eyes widen. “You had your mom make chicken soup for me?”
You set the container on my desk. “Yep. She had today off work. I swear you’ll feel better after eating it.”
“Wow. That’s … you’re amazing.”
“Why, thank you.” Your lip turns up. “I may have promised to bring you to dinner when you’re not contagious.”
My stomach flips. Holy fucking shit, you want me to meet your parents.
“I promise they don’t bite.” You hold up a spoon. “You hungry?”
“I better wait,” I say. “Unless you enjoy being vomited on.”
The corner of your mouth turns up. “I draw the line at being vomited on.” You look around. “So this is your room.”
I try to see it through your eyes. A poster with a shot of New York City from above, a Rent poster I got on eBay, a map of Paris. A bookshelf stuffed with Nancy Drew mysteries and old copies of Vogue. Knickknacks line the windowsill—seashells from Malibu, Happy Meal toys that Sam gifts me with.
“I like it,” you say. Your eyes land on the collage of pictures next to my bed. You move closer. After a minute, you see the one of you and my face goes pink.
“That was a good day,” you say.
We had finished tech rehearsals for The Importance of Being Earnest and we all ordered pizza and ate it in the quad before playing flag football—without a football or any flags.
You point to a picture of Beth and me jumping from a high dive together. “Who’s that?”
“My sister—Beth. She’s two years older than me. She’s at UCLA now.”
“My dream school,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“I auditioned for them in the fall. Should be finding out sometime soon.”
I need this reminder. Whatever’s going on between us now, it can’t last. You’ll be moving to LA when I’m starting my senior year. But I don’t want to think about that.
“You’ll get in.”
You shrug. “Maybe.” You reach for the ginger ale. “Think you can keep this down?”
I nod and take it, grateful. “All my mom gave me was water.”
“What’s the deal with her? I felt like I needed a hazmat suit to get in here.”
I sigh. “That’s just … Mom. She’s got a thing about germs.” I reach out a hand and squeeze your arm. “Thanks for taking care of me.”
You smile. “Best part of my day.”
I bite my lip, casting about for something to look at, anything but your eyes.
“What’s in that bag?” I say, pointing to the tote.
“Ah, yes.”