I nod without thinking about it.
“Maybe for defense, too,” he adds. “If you keep flailing like a rookie beyotch.” He pauses. “You’re annoying—are you listening? I’m giving clarity and you’re giving me grunts. Cool. Love that for me.”
I shrug one shoulder.
Because I’m already back in my own head.
Back on the couch where she used to hog the remote. Back in the kitchen where she once spilled cereal and muttered a four-minute apology. Back in the driveway where she left that night with her boxes and her stupid cactus lamp.
And now I know she’s sick. Miserable. Probably curled in a nest of blankets with a bucket and no appetite.
The worst part? I didn’t know.
I pull out my phone again and stare at our message thread.
Still nothing from her.
Me: Nova told Luca you’re sick. Are you okay? Want me to bring you anything? I’m good at soup delivery. Great at not making it weird.
I stare at the blinking cursor for a beat before hitting send.
Three dots appear.
Then vanish.
Then reappear.
Then vanish again.
Jesus Christ. I’ve never wanted to throw my phone and projectile vomit at the same fucking time.
I swallow hard, pressing the heel of my palm to my sternum like I can shove the ache back down where it belongs.
Still nothing.
I check again.
And then, finally?—
Poppy: I’m okay. Just gross and exhausted. Thanks for checking. I don’t need anything.
It’s polite. Distant. All the warmth I remember, scrubbed out of her words as if we were only roommates and not something more.
Well shit.
This can’t be good.
Seriously though, what the hell was I expecting? More emotion? A longer message? A voice memo of her coughing followed by,“Please bring soup and maybe if I’m feeling better, we and fuck for old times’ sake?”
I rub a hand over my face and exhale.
She’s setting a boundary.
I start typing a response. Delete it.
Type again. Delete that one, too.
Eventually, I settle on:Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.
