Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92646 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 463(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 309(@300wpm)
I scramble off the bed and make a beeline for the bathroom, barely making it in time before I’m heaving over the toilet.
Okay. Cool. Great.
I’m just... sick. A stomach bug. Something bad I ate. Maybe the emotional whiplash of pretending I’m chill about Turner for seven whole days finally broke me.
Or—maybe—I’m dying.
That’s totally plausible, too.
I sit down on the floor, back against the cabinet, knees pulled up. My heart’s still racing, and my mouth tastes like regret. My phone buzzes from the bedroom where I left it, but I can’t make myself move.
Not yet.
“Ugh! You do not have time to be sick,” I complain, reaching up for a washcloth and pressing it against my forehead.
I sit there for another few minutes, panting like I just ran a marathon in flip-flops, the cold cloth dripping down my temple and making me shiver. My body feels like warm trash.
Total garbage.
After what feels like an eternity, I manage to drag myself up. My legs are noodles. My insides? Betraying me. I clutch the sink, splash water on my face, and glare at my reflection like this is somehow her fault.
"You dramatic little bitch," I mutter.
I shuffle out of the bathroom, flop face-first into my bed, and groan into the comforter. The phone buzzes again somewhere near my elbow.
I groan again.
Should probably tell Nova I’m dying—she would want to know. Or text my parents or something, just in case.
With an epic groan, I blindly slap around for my cell and drag it under the covers like I’m trying to smuggle state secrets. My eyes barely open, fingers fumbling as I scroll through contacts and tap on Nova’s name.
Me: Update: I’m dying. This is the end. Feel like total shit, just threw up.
Three seconds later:
Nova: YOU POOR THING!!! I’ve heard the flu is going around but what kind of dying are we talking about here? Food poisoning? Covid?
Me: ALL THE ABOVE. I can barely type this but also, don’t even think of stopping by unless you’re bringing soup and saltine crackers.
Nova: Bold of you to make demands on me from your deathbed.
Me: I’m not above HAUNTING you if you bring off-brand.
Nova: There’s no way you’re that sick if you’re threatening me.
Me: I am!
Nova: Then I’ll have some things delivered for you—are you okay enough to get the door when it’s dropped off?
Me: Probably?
Nova: Okay then I’ll order you some shit. Mama Nova will take care of you—from a safe distance, ha ha.
Me: You’re a national treasure. Please get me the boring kind of soup, not the fancy stuff with quinoa
Nova: Got it. Chicken noodle, saltines, maybe some sad little pudding cups.
Me: Only the beige food group. Beige like me, I need a spray tan.
Nova: You are so bossy, but ok.
I roll over with a groan, hugging my phone to my chest, eyes burning with a combination of dehydration and raw emotion, frustrated at being sick, wanting to shower but not having the strength.
Thirty minutes later the knock at the door has me slowly easing out of my cocoon and shuffling toward the door.
Bland snacks in all their glory.
“My god why is this so heavy?” I complain, hoisting the bag onto my kitchen counter, wobbling limbs barely able to lift what weighs like fifty pounds.
Inside the bag is what every person with the flu needs to survive: chicken soup. Saltines. Apple juice. Gatorade. Chocolate pudding cups. One pack of toasted cheese crackers I didn’t ask for but am now grateful for. A bag of gummy bears.
“Thank you, Nova.” She is a queen.
Nova: Are you alive??? The groceries are showing delivered.
Me: Alive and chugging Gatorade.
She is a godsend.
turner
. . .
The sound of clanging weights and bad rap music fills the air—both things I normally find cathartic. Today? They're just background noise to the chaos in my head.
I rack the barbell, drop down onto the bench, and exhale through my nose like I’m not secretly using these reps to work out some unresolved Poppy-related tension.
It’s been three days.
Three since she replied to my last message. Since she hit me with that “somewhere between feral and functional” line that made me laugh in the middle of the cereal aisle.
And then—nothing.
Radio silence.
No memes. No sarcastic insults.
Maybe she realized she doesn’t want this.
Doesn’t want me.
I roll my neck, trying to shake it off. Grab the bar again. Push through another set even though my shoulders are burning and my head’s not in it. I’m usually good at this—burning off stress, letting my brain zone out and my body take over.
But today?
Today I’m reracking my own spiraling thoughts.
Luca wanders over, tosses a towel across my shoulder, and gives me a look like I’m the human equivalent of a wet sock. “Okay, seriously, bro. You’re working out like someone took a massive dump on your birthday cake.”
Nice metaphor. “I’m fine.”
“That’s what people say when they’re not fine.” He grabs a kettle bell and begins swinging it. “You’ve got sad energy. Like Eeyore, but jacked.”