TWO DAYS LATER, Madison arrives at my house with an armload of clothing in plastic dry-cleaning bags. “Oh god,” she says when I let her in. “You look terrible.”
“I’m sick,” I say, wiping a tissue beneath my red, runny nose for what feels like the hundredth time that day.
“You can’t be sick. It’s New Year’s Eve! You have a date.”
I instantly regretted calling Madison and telling her about Eric’s asking me out after he left the library that morning. She immediately began talking about what I was going to wear and doing my makeup, and it all started to feel like too much. Too overwhelming. And maybe Eric didn’t even mean for it to be a date.
“I’m not going,” I say, my head pounding. “I’ve got the flu or the worst head cold ever or something.”
“Of course you’re going. Take some DayQuil.”
“Are drugs your answer for everything?”
She pretends to ponder this and then nods. “Most things.”
“Well, I already took some medicine and I still feel like this,” I say. “I just need to sleep.”
She pouts. “Fine. Ruin my fun. But I’m leaving this black little number here, because it’s the one I was going to make you wear anyway.” She pulls a garment out of its clear plastic bag encasement and holds up a sweater that has sequins on the front, some kind of leather material on the sides, and wisps of fur around the wrists and hem.
“That looks like a dead cat. With glitter.”
“It does not! It’s super sexy. Trust me.”
“Where are the pants?”
She cocks her head at me. “It’s a dress.”
I laugh, even though it makes my head hurt worse. “That is not a dress.”
“Whatever,” she says, tossing it on the couch. “I’ve got to go get the kids from Donovan before his latest whore—oops! I mean date—gets there.” She gives a little good-bye salute. “Feel better,” she says. “And wear the dress.” She points at it where it’s draped on the back of the sofa for emphasis. Then she turns to leave.
“I’m not going,” I call after her, but she’s already shut the door behind herself and I don’t know if she hears me.
I wipe my nose again and plop down on the couch. My head feels like it’s going to explode. I need to call Eric and cancel, but I’m exhausted and I just want to go to sleep. Besides, I reason, maybe I will feel better after a nap and be up to going. I stretch out, lay my head on a throw pillow, and close my eyes.
“JUBILEE?”
I open my eyes and look up, directly into Eric’s upside-down face. Am I dreaming? I blink again and take in his freshly shaven cheeks his tousled hair. He looks exceptionally good in my dream.
“Um, the door was unlocked.” He points back at it with his thumb. Oh my god. New Year’s Eve. This is not a dream. I sit straight up.
“I knocked a few times but you didn’t answer, so I just . . . we did say seven, didn’t we?”
“It’s seven?” I croak, my throat dry and now noticeably sore, as if the cold moved its way from my head to my neck while I slept. I rub my hand over my face and feel some drool on my cheek. I hastily wipe it away and hope Eric didn’t notice. “I’m sorry, I should have called you,” I say, sniffling. “I’m sick.”
“Yeah, I can tell,” he says, a flash of concern crossing his face. “Is this . . . is it something to do with your allergy?”
“Oh no,” I say. “Just a bad cold or something.”
“So I guess the fireworks are out.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I don’t think I’m up for it. But you guys should go. Is Aja in the car?”
“No,” Eric says, giving his head a small shake. “He, ah . . . he wanted to spend some time with Connie, so they’re hanging together at her place.”
My stomach flips. Something about the way he says it makes me think maybe he orchestrated it. That he wanted to be alone with me. But then, that’s stupid. It’s not like we can do anything.
A little tickle in my throat forces me to cough, and then I can’t stop. Eric moves a step closer and then freezes as if he just realized there’s nothing he can do. He walks past me and into the kitchen. When he comes back with a glass of water in his gloved hand, the hacking has subsided. I take it from him gratefully. After a few sips, I say: “You know, you probably shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to get you sick, too.”
“I think I can chance it,” he says. “I promise not to get too close.” He winks, and I feel myself growing warm.
As I nurse the water, he peels off his scarf and coat and throws them on the armchair, but I notice he leaves his gloves on. “Now,” he says. “What do you need? Hot tea? Chicken soup?”
As he stands there looking at me, I study him. Why is he here? Why is he doing this for me? I can’t understand it. And I think maybe, I don’t want to. I don’t want to analyze it anymore. I just want to give in to everything I’m feeling, even if I can’t give in to everything. I flush, hoping my thoughts aren’t written on my face.
“Tea would be nice,” I say. “I have some in the cabinet to the top right of the stove.”
He nods and points at the TV. “You turn on the New Year’s countdown so we don’t miss whatever terrible pop band is playing. I’ll be right back.”
I stand up to grab the remote from where it’s resting next to the TV and click buttons until Ryan Seacrest’s plastic smile and coiffed hair fill the screen. When I settle back into the couch, something brushes the back of my neck and I jump, startled, and reach up, half-scared my hand is about to come in contact with a spider. Instead, I find myself touching the crazy fur part on Madison’s sweater dress. I pull it into my lap.
“Do you take sugar?” I look up at Eric where he fills the frame of the doorway between the den and the kitchen.
“Just a little,” I say. “Thanks.”
He eyes the sweater. “What is that?”
“A dress. Allegedly. Madison brought it over,” I say.
“A dress?” he says, cracking a smile. “Looks like a dead raccoon or something.”
“I know!” I hold it up so he can take in the leather and sequins.
“Oh dear god,” he laughs. “It’s hideous. Why did she give it to you?”
“She wanted me to wear it tonight.”
His eyes go big. “What? Nooo. That’s amazing. Were you going to?”
“Of course not,” I say.
“Well now you have to put it on,” he says. “Obviously.”
“What? No.” I start laughing, and it turns into a cough. “I am not doing that.”
“I’m afraid I insist,” he says, crossing his arms. “If only to prove that it is, in fact, an article of clothing and not a deceased animal. Go.” He waves his hand toward the stairs. “While I finish making the tea.”