Page 69 of We Could Be So Good
“That might be half the problem. She asked when was the last time you had the flu and I told her I didn’t know.”
“High school,” Andy mumbles.
“Yeah, well, remember how bad the flu was last year?”
“Sorta.” Andy does remember—they had called it the Asian flu and apparently it was almost as bad as the Spanish flu of 1918.
“Well, everybody else in the world got the flu last year, but you didn’t, so you’re getting it now.”
Andy’s too tired to argue that this can’t possibly be how the flu actually works, so he shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, Nick is sitting on the coffee table with a paper bag in his hand. He’s still wearing his coat. “These are the tablets Beverly said to get,” he says, opening a red-and-white cardboard box.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Oh, can it, will you.” He unscrews the bottle and holds out his palm. Andy takes the two pills, swallowing them down with a cup of orange juice that Nick passes him. He hates that Nick went out to the drugstore at night, hates that he called his brother’s house. Andy doesn’t want to be any trouble.
“Let’s get you to bed.” Nick stands and pulls Andy into his arms, disgusting sinuses and all. Only then does Andy realize he’s been crying. Jesus. He needs to pull himself together.
Nick leads Andy down the hall to his bedroom.
“You sure you don’t want me to sleep in my own bed?” Andy asks. “I’ll keep you up half the night wheezing. And I don’t want you to get sick.”
“I had the flu last year, right before you started at theChronicle. Knocked me flat on my ass for a whole weekend. And anyway, I’m probably already swarming with whatever germs you’ve got.”
This is true. Their faces were practically attached to one another all weekend. He might have said that aloud, because Nick snorts and says, “Very romantic.”
Andy is still contemplating that word—romantic—and what it might mean, when he realizes Nick has somehow gotten him out of his clothes and into a pair of pajamas.
“Can you sleep with the light on?” Nick asks. “I might read while you’re resting.”
It’s bizarre that Nick wants to be with him. From the neck up he’s made entirely of phlegm and snot, each of which are objectively disgusting even on their own. But Nick strips down to his shorts and gets into bed next to Andy, sitting against the headboard.
Andy falls asleep to the feel of Nick’s hand stroking his hair, and he can’t remember if he asked Nick to do that or if Nick somehow knew.
He sleeps fitfully, waking to blow his nose using the box of Kleenex that Nick wedged between Andy’s pillow and the headboard. Whenever he settles back down, Nick’s arm lands heavy and sure around him. Nick murmurs things that may or may not be actual words, the sort of soothing sounds you make to wounded animals or crying babies.
“I’m right here,” Nick mumbles at one point, when Andy wakes with his teeth chattering. Andy burrows into Nick’s side, seeking his warmth. Nick has always been like a furnace.
Andy knows he really ought to go next door to his own room. Nick can’t be getting any real sleep with Andy tossing and turning.
But Andy wants this—he wants Nick’s warmth, he wants the feel of Nick’s solid body pressed against him, he wants Nick’s gentle words and the kiss he absently drops on the top of Andy’s sweaty head. He’s miserable and sick and inexplicably sad and he doesn’t have enough strength to go away.
Chapter Seventeen
The next day there isn’t any question of Andy going to work.
“You ought to go to the doctor,” Nick says as he brings Andy a cup of coffee in bed.
Andy doesn’t have a doctor. He hasn’t had more than a cold in ages. He’s lucky that way. He supposes he could call his father’s doctor, but he doesn’t want to let on how sick he is—the last thing his father needs is one more thing to worry about.
“It’s a cold,” Andy says, managing to roll his eyes despite the throbbing in his head. “The doctor would only laugh at me.”
“Do you need me to stay home? I could—”
“No,”Andy says with probably too much force, because Nick’s eyes widen in surprise. “Don’t be silly.” If there’s a big story and Nick isn’t around, he’ll regret it.
“Fine, but you’d better call me every couple of hours or I’m coming by to check on you. Or, worse, I’ll send Mrs.Martelli to check on you. She’ll come up here with prayer cards and the rosary and make you eat raw garlic.”
Privately, Andy would rather have Mrs.Martelli and her garlic than he would an empty apartment, but he isn’t going to admit this to Nick. When Nick leaves, Andy promptly falls back asleep.
