Page 89 of Rare Blend
Marisa
SACRED CALDO DE POLLO
I’m sick. It’s the Friday before Thanksgiving, and I’m on my deathbed. The flu that’s been spreading around town finally got me. I consider myself to be fairly tolerable in most uncomfortable situations, but when I’m sick, I may as well be a man, because I go full-on man cold.
I tried to deny it, but yesterday I woke up feeling off, and it only got worse as the day progressed. Today, there’s no denying it. I attempted to go into work, but my dad took one look at me and sent me straight home. At the end of the day, I found myself in bed, eventually dozing off.
Hours must have passed since I fell asleep, because my bedroom is bathed in darkness, and a hand is resting on my forehead, smoothing down my hair.
“Hey,” Ethan whispers. “How are you feeling?”
If I had any energy, I’d be shocked to see him here, but a small part of my memory recalls him inviting himself over. I’m not even sure if I responded. I’m positive my skin is gross and greasy, and there’s probably snot on my face. I should be embarrassed about letting Ethan see me like this, but his face is showing nothing but concern for me.
“Like shit,” I moan.
He chuckles, adjusting the surrounding blankets and tucking me in tighter. “You should’ve texted me that you weren’t feeling well. I would’ve come over sooner.”
“I didn’t want to get you sick.”
“Like I care about that.” He shakes his head. “There’s some medicine on the nightstand. Take it and you can go back to sleep.”
He leaves, and I down the awful-tasting liquid, sleep coming fast.
When I wake up again, it’s almost noon the next day, and the sun is shining brightly through my windows. Thankfully, I don’t feel quite as shitty as I did yesterday. In fact, my stomach growls, reminding me it’s been a while since I’ve eaten.
I get out of bed and walk to the kitchen, hoping there’s magically going to be something in my fridge that’s edible. Turning the corner, my steps falter as I stare at the man standing in my kitchen, cooking at the stove.
It’s Ethan.
Did he stay the night?
“What are you doing here?”
He turns to me, still stirring something in a pot, and smiles casually, as if it’s normal for him to be cooking in my kitchen. “Hey,” he says cheerfully. “Hungry?”
On cue, my stomach growls ferociously.
“I guess so,” I admit, still surprised to see him.
“Sit,” he commands, and I do because I’m too sick to function.
He sets a bowl in front of me.
I don’t know what to think. I look down at it and then back up at him.
What?
His grin is so big, you’d think the man never scowled a day in his life.
“How— Where— Explain yourself.”
He sits across from me at the table, still smiling proudly. “Your mom called. And then she called again. And again. By the fourth time, I finally answered. I told her you weren’t feeling well, and we got to chatting, and she gave me the recipe.”
“You talked to my mom? And she was nice?”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Well, at first she was a little scary and then she was nicer.”
He talked to my mom.
