“Well, really, I don’t even know if she made the turkey. She probably ordered it precooked or something. But anyway, her turkey was as big as a full-grown Yorkshire pi— uh . . . a really big pig. One of those huge pink ones.” Mike nods his understanding, and I force myself to stop stammering. “Right. So, this turkey could’ve fed fifty people even after the seven of us ate our fill. It was honestly the biggest, most beautiful turkey I’d ever seen, but my mom . . . my mom had always made the turkey before, and hers had never been anything near that size, and I could see how bad she felt about it.”
A frown slips onto Mike’s face, and I remember the look my mom wore that day.
“I remember looking across the table, and my mom smiled at me, and all I could think was that I’d never seen her look so sad. And Danica was sitting right next to me, and she kept asking us if we’d ever seen a turkey that big, and talking about how she’d never seen a turkey even half that size.”
I roll my eyes, remembering how oblivious she was. I even kicked her under the table at one point, but all she did was smack me and loudly order me to watch where I was putting my feet.
“And her parents weren’t any better, talking about how they had to contact special people to get this special turkey, and how special it all was.” I sigh and shake my head. “So my uncle finished carving this ridiculous turkey, and he went to put some on my plate, and I just threw my hands over my plate and said, ‘Oh no, I’m a vegetarian.’”
I laugh to myself, and Mike smiles up at me.
“All of a sudden I was the center of attention instead of that stupid turkey, and everyone was gaping at me, and Danica got so mad. She kept ordering me to admit I was lying and eat the turkey, but I never did.” My proud smile stretches across my face. “Because that was the day I became a vegetarian.”
“You haven’t eaten meat in eight years just to spite your family?”
“I guess so,” I say with a chuckle, and Mike belly-laughs until he starts coughing and has to roll away from me again.
“You’re amazing,” he praises when he finally catches his breath, and I grin at the side of his head.
“A real rebel.” One who never stayed out past curfew, didn’t get a car until she was eighteen, and babysat her brother on weekends for fun.
“Tell me something else.”
I ask Mike what he wants to know, and the list of things he comes up with is endless. We pass hour after hour with story after story.
He asks me why I want to be a veterinarian, and I tell him about the thirteen photos my mom keeps in a hatbox in her closet. Every year on the first day of school, she stood me on our front porch with a sign that read, “When I grow up, I want to be a . . .” And every year, that sentence was finished with “a veterinarian.” The handwriting changed over time—from my mom’s, to a child’s sloppy lettering, to the handwriting I use today—but the dream has always been the same. I’ve wanted to be a veterinarian for as long as I can remember, because I wanted to care for pets that were loved instead of simply cared for. I grew up knowing not to get too attached to the chickens or pigs we owned—with the exception of Teacup, who was my birthday present for my sweet sixteenth—but it’s always hurt my heart a little, knowing that they were never truly loved. So I loved our dogs and cats extra, and I’ve always wanted to spend my life helping people who love their animals just as much as I love mine, and to make sure that their animals stay with them as long as possible.
Mike asks me other things too—like what it was like growing up on a farm, if it’s hard when the dogs get adopted from the shelter, if I plan on moving back to Indiana once I get my degree. He asks a million thoughtful questions that I answer with stories. I tell him about the sick baby goat I rescued at home and how it was the first animal I ever named. I tell him about the time I broke my arm when I cartwheeled right out of our barn’s hayloft. I tell him about falling asleep to the smell of rain falling outside my window. I tell him about the poodle that got adopted from the shelter by a little boy and his family last week, and how it wouldn’t stop licking the boy’s face and clothes.
I tell him stories until my eyelids are drooping and my hand is heavy on his shoulder. And I notice when he begins shivering beneath my palm.
“Are you shaking again?” I ask, leaning forward to study Mike’s face. In the glow of the TV, I can see the sweat glistening on his forehead.
“I’m fine,” he chatters with his eyes closed.
“You’re not.” I glance at the clock, and my stomach plummets. “You were due for more cold medicine an hour ago.” It’s past eleven. Where did the time go?
“I didn’t want to get up,” he reasons, and I hiss when I press my palm against his face.
“You’re burning up.” Another big shiver rocks through him, and I push his hair away from his forehead. “Let me up.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“I’m just going to get more cold medicine,” I promise, sliding out from beneath him. I curse my shitty nursing skills all the way to the kitchen, where I grab the cold medicine, a glass and bowl full of cold water, and a washcloth.
“Here,” I say so that he’ll sit up when I get back. Standing in front of the couch, I hand him a measuring cap full of blue medicine, and then I give him a glass of water. He drinks it down and stares up at me, waiting until I sit back down in my seat at the end of the couch.
Two seconds later, his head is in my lap again. No pillow. Just his cheek and his scruff and his breath against my jeans.
My trembling hand dips the washcloth into the bowl I set on the side table. I wring it out one-handed and gently place it against Mike’s forehead. “Does that feel okay?”
His arm wraps around my legs, his fingers tucking beneath my thigh. I couldn’t wiggle out from under him now even if I tried. “Yeah.”
My whole body aches from how tense my muscles are, but still, I brush that washcloth over Mike’s forehead again and again, slowly and softly. I comb his damp hair away from his forehead with the fingers of one hand and follow it with the cold washcloth I hold like a lifeline in the other. “You should be in bed.”
Mike’s fingers slide a little further beneath my jeans, his hold on my legs growing even snugger. “I should be right here.”
“Danica wouldn’t like this,” I blurt, because my heart is pounding and my blood is rushing and Mike’s cheek is on my legs.
“Danica isn’t here.”
I freeze with the washcloth against his temple, and Mike turns his chin to look up at me. “It’s fine.” At my doubtful expression, he swears, “It’s fine. Trust me . . . It’s going to be fine.”
I don’t know if I believe him, but when he turns away from me again, I run the washcloth over his forehead. I let him hold me, and I take care of him, even though in my heart, I know none of this is fine.
Danica should be taking care of him.
She is who he should be holding.
I shouldn’t have these feelings.
“I’m not her, Mike.”
“I know,” he says. “Trust me. I know.”
Chapter 17
“I stayed because I had to,” I tell the bobble-head zombie gnashing at me from my dashboard. “He was so sick. You should have seen him, Danica.”