Page 112 of Truly, Madly, Deeply

And stared.

And stared.

And stared.

Screw it. She slammed her laptop shut in disgust and shoved it away with a whimper, muscles aching worse than they had that time Lulu roped her into taking a pole fitness class. And all Truly had done today was move from her bedroom to her couch to her bathroom and back in the world’s saddest, smallest circuit.

She sniffled, feeling completely pitiful, only the sound that escaped was more of a bleat, the dying honk of a goose, maybe. Everything hurt and Truly—

Truly really, really wanted her mom.

She pinched her eyes shut against a fresh onslaught of tears, tears that would do nothing but make her more miserable, her stash of Kleenex already worryingly low.

In the two weeks that had passed since Mom had left the lake house without so much as a goodbye, Truly had yet to hear from her. Mom hadn’t texted and neither had Truly because if Dad was right about one thing it was that she had definitely gotten her stubbornness from Mom.

Mom was mad? So was Truly. But it didn’t change the fact that nothing, nothing sounded better than Mom’s chicken noodle soup, a secret recipe she kept closely guarded. It was magic in a bowl, transcendent and comforting and it was the only food Truly craved when she was sick, the only food she could stomach.

Across the couch, her phone vibrated.

She studied the distance between her hand and her cell and did the complicated mental math on the effort it would take to reach across the space and grab it, factoring in that it was after six, further factoring that just thinking about moving even her pinky choked her up. Whoever it was could wait until her ibuprofens kicked in or her bladder forced her up from the couch. Whichever happened first.

Her phone rang and she groaned, forced to bite the bullet and grab it.

Colin.

Despite the crushing headache and soreness in her muscles, she cracked a smile.

“Hello?” she croaked.

“Hey, are you—are you okay, baby?”

“’m fine.” She covered the receiver, muffling her cough.

“You don’t sound fine,” he said, concern obvious in his voice. “What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“Home. ’s just a cold.” She sniffled. “Allergies, maybe.”

“I just got out of the office and thought I’d see if you wanted to grab a bite. But now I’m more concerned about this cold. Are you running a fever? What are your symptoms?”

“I’m fine, Dr. McCrory.” She laughed, which would’ve been reassuring had it not led to a coughing fit, all her hacking undermining her attempt at brushing off his concern.

“Truly.” The way he said her name, all stern, sent a shiver down her spine. Either that, or it was the fever. It was probably the fever. Not that she’d tell him that. “What do you need? Talk to me.”

“N-nothing.” Her voice cracked and her bottom lip wobbled, the tears she’d resolutely kept at bay finally spilling over, the day finally taking its toll. “You can’t. You’re sweet, but you can’t.”

“Try me.”

Tears sluiced down her cheeks and dripped off her jaw. The effort it would’ve taken to dry her face was too great. “My—my mom, when I was sick, she made me soup.”

“What kind of soup?” he asked. “Chicken noodle? Tomato? Beef and barley?”

“Chicken noodle, but it was—” She pinched her eyes shut, not sure how to tell him it tasted better because it was Mom who made it. How she wasn’t so much craving the soup as much as she was the comfort it provided. “You know, I don’t have much of an appetite. Rain check on dinner?”

“Of course. Do you want me to come over?”

She cringed. “I’m all snotty and gross.”

“That’s not an answer.”

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