Chapter 1
Joshua
"Where are you going in such a hurry?" Dad asks.
I really don’t have time to explain that Abby needs me.
"Joshua!" he says, his voice firm.
"Dad, I don’t have time to explain right now, but I have to go to the pharmacy. Abby’s not feeling well, and she doesn’t have any medication."
He looks at me, perplexed.
"What’s that look for?"
"Where are her parents?"
"They’re not home. Dad, I really don’t have time for chit-chat."
He begrudgingly lets me go.
I race to the pharmacy. "Hi, I’m looking for some medication for someone with stomach cramps. She’s nauseous and throwing up. She’s lost her appetite and has no energy," I rush out when I reach the counter.
"Okay, sir. I would suggest—"
I tune her out because I don’t really care what it is, as long as it makes Abby better. I hate the thought of her being in pain.
She gives me a pointed look, and I realise she’s waiting for me to respond. "Yes, can I have all of that, please?"
"Right. Please give me a moment."
She returns with the medication and explains how to take it.
"Thanks."
"No problem. You can pay at the till at the front."
Luckily, the queue isn’t long, and soon I’m on my way to Abby’s house. When I get there, I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. I try the handle, and it turns.
What the hell, Abby?
"Abby?"
I check the living room first, but she’s not there, so I head upstairs to her bedroom.
"Hey."
"Hey, she croaks",.
"I got you some medication. Let’s see what we have here. The pharmacist reckons you’ll be feeling better in no time."
"Thanks. Ugh, I haven’t eaten today. Could you get me a slice of bread? I don’t think you’re supposed to take medication on an empty stomach."
"Really?" I pull out my phone to see what Professor Google has to say. "Yeah, I think you’re right. It says some are different, though, and we should check the packaging. Damn, I really should’ve listened to the pharmacist. I’ll be right back. Stay put."
I head to the kitchen. I’m about to open the bread bin when I check the fridge, just in case there’s something better for her.
There are leftovers, salads, yoghurts and sandwich spreads. I doubt she can stomach a sandwich or reheated food. I’ll just get the bread for now.
"I thought you’d left. You’ve been gone ages. Did you get lost on your way to the kitchen? Oh—" She clutches her stomach.
"Here, you funny woman. Eat that, and we’ll get started on these." I point to the medication.
She eats while I read the instructions and gather what we need, including water and spoons.
"Okay, this one says take two spoonfuls. Open wide."
She opens her mouth, and I give her the medicine.
"Now take these two tablets. They should help with the cramps."
"Oh, I have these. I usually take them when I’m on my period," she says.
"Here’s another one."
I hand her a mug of hot water with a fizzy tablet dissolved in it. "This says you should drink it, then sleep. The packet says it works best under the covers and should make you sweat."
She complies without argument. She must be in a lot of pain. My girl is stubborn and would normally fight me on everything.
She lies down after finishing the drink.
"Get some sleep. I’ll figure out lunch." I press a kiss to her forehead. Forehead kisses are our thing.
"Josh?" she says as I reach the door. I turn. "Thanks."
"I’d do anything for you, Abby. You know that."
"I know. You’re awesome. I love you."
Yeah, I know. If only you loved me the way I love you.
"Mom, how do I make soup?"
"What?" comes her voice down the line.
"How do I make soup?" I repeat.
"Yes, I heard you. Why do you want to make soup? Better yet, why do you want to cook at all? Is your dad okay?"
"Yeah, Dad’s fine. Abby’s not feeling well, and I want to make her something that won’t upset her stomach."
"Oh no. Did she take any medication? Does she have the flu?"
"Yeah, I got her some from the pharmacy this morning. I don’t think it’s the flu because she doesn’t have a fever—just cramps and nausea. She feels light-headed and weak. I want to make her some lunch, then wake her and see how she’s doing."
"Okay, chicken and rice soup is the easiest. Do they have any chicken stock?"
"I’m not sure."
"Check the cupboard, Josh."
"Right." I head to the cupboard and, luckily, they have some.
"Good. Any leftover rice?"
"Yes, I saw some in the fridge."
"Great. Any leftover chicken?"
"Er, no. Only fish."
"That was a long shot. We’ll substitute eggs. I’ll send you the instructions via text because I’ve got a meeting soon, but I’ll keep my phone with me. Alright?"
"Thanks, Mom. Love you."
"Love you too, sweetheart."
I get to work once the recipe comes through. I make the soup, tidy the kitchen, then head upstairs with a tray of food and medication.
When I reach her bedroom, she’s still asleep.
Oh, my poor Abby.
I set the tray with the soup, toast and medication on her desk.
"Abby," I whisper, gently shaking her.
"Mm… what?" She blinks awake.
"Hey. How are you feeling?"
"I’m not sure. I hope the medication helped a bit.” She taps my shoulder so I can help her out of bed. She goes to the bathroom and closes the door.
I glance at the photo of us on her bedside table. We’re standing side by side—her in a swimsuit, me in swim shorts. My arm is draped over her shoulder, hers around my waist, both of us grinning. I’m not sure whether that holiday when we were twelve is when I first fell in love with her, or whether she truly is my soulmate.
She comes back, interrupting my thoughts.
"Is this for me? I’m starving," she says.
I’m glad her voice is stronger, and she doesn’t seem quite so exhausted.
"Yes. Mom gave me a recipe for chicken and rice soup. Well, egg and rice soup. It would’ve taken too long with chicken.”
"You cooked for me?" she asks, astonished.
"Yeah. I wanted you to be better before school. I need someone to help me fend off Charlie," I joke.
"You couldn’t just be sweet for one minute and let me have that, could you?" She tries to throw a pillow at me, but it flops halfway between us.
"I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better. Eat up so you can take your second round of medication. We’ve only got one more day to get you back to one hundred per cent, and I’m not messing about. Chop chop." I clap my hands.
She sticks her tongue out at me, and I laugh.
"This is good," she murmurs. "You should cook for me more often. You’ve been holding out."
I blush. Making her happy does something to me. Her praise is good for my ego, too.
She can’t fall back asleep, so we spend the rest of the afternoon with me sitting at the foot of her bed while she stays tucked under the covers, talking about everything and nothing. That’s the kind of friendship we have. We can talk endlessly or sit in silence without it ever feeling awkward.
I’m grateful for the day I met her. She completes me, in a way. Which is why I’m terrified of risking what we have by confessing how I feel. I have no reason to believe she feels the same, and I’m scared of taking the leap only for her not to jump with me.
That would hurt.
No, I won’t risk it. Things are good as they are.
I just don’t know how much longer my heart can keep pretending.
