It goes to voicemail and I toss the phone on the bed, looking through my book bag for my meds. After taking the amoxicillin, I down the prescribed dose of cough syrup so I might be able to eat without coughing and puking like I did Saturday night. While I appreciated the soup, I did not appreciate the puke fest later that night.
I should go downstairs and cook, but I don’t have the energy. I could go back to sleep and just snooze straight through the rest of the day. But I know I need to eat something or I’ll end up sick to my stomach. Groaning, I get up and look through the small stash of goodies I have. A granola bar will at least get me through until I feel up to cooking.
I swear I haven’t been this sick since Homecoming my sophomore year in high school. I miss Nana making me homemade chicken noodle soup. We never really had a lot of money, but when me or my brother got sick, that’s what we’d all eat. Making that would only make me miss her more, though, so it’s probably good I don’t feel like it.
Munching on the granola bar, I pull out my laptop and go over my notes for my biology exam tomorrow. Biology was always my strong suit. People told me all through high schoolI should study medicine because I was so good at biology and chemistry, but that’s not what I want to do. I want to try and help addicts and their families because of what we went through. That feels more meaningful and impactful to me.
“Knock, knock!” Hutch opens my door without waiting for me to tell him to come in. He looks all cheerful and puppy dog happy today. He’s in a pair of jeans and a team hoodie.
“I was studying.”
“Did you eat yet?”
“I had a granola bar.”
“That’s not food.”
“It is when you’re trying to catch up on everything you missed.”
He waltzes in and glares at me. “You’re not going to get better if you don’t eat.”
“I’ll find something later.”
“Nope. I’ll cook something for you.”
“You can cook?”
“I can use a microwave.”
“Uh, no thanks. I don’t do microwave dinners. I’ll make myself something in a bit.”
“I’ll order food…”
“No. I’m done with takeout. I prefer home cooked meals. I’ll make my own food.”
“Then let’s go downstairs and you can cook yourself dinner.” He crosses his arms like he’ll stand there all day until I do exactly that.
“You’re a pain, you know that?”
He grins. “I’ve been called worse.”
Closing my laptop, I grumble but get up. I was going to go find food soon anyway. Might as well do it now and get him out of my hair. I don’t know why he has this need to feed me. I eat enough. Mostly.
I head to the cabinet I’d bought to hold my pantry items. It was easier to buy a cabinet at Walmart then to go downstairs and find the guys ate it all while I was asleep or in class. The question is what to make? I need to go shopping.
“What?” He comes over and looks inside.
“I need to go shopping.”
“Then let’s go shopping.”
“I don’t feel like going shopping.”
“Then tell me what you want and I’ll go get it.”
“No, I don’t want to impose.”
“Woman, let me get you groceries. I’m the reason you’re sick, so let me do this. Please.”
