Page 113 of Truly, Madly, Deeply

“You don’t need to see this.”

Not the snot, not the phlegmy cough, and definitely not how being sick turned her into an emotionally fragile mess liable to burst into tears at any moment and for any reason.

“Truly, baby, the only thing I care about right now is making sure you’re okay. A little snot isn’t going to send me running for the hills.”

She stared at the mountain of used tissues on the coffee table. This was more than a little snot. “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“I can afford to take a few sick days.”

Her throat clicked painfully when she swallowed. “I think I just... I think I just need sleep. I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.”

He sighed over the line. “If you’re sure.”

She managed to choke out a goodbye before a fresh wave of tears brought on by Colin’s concern and exhaustion hit.

Eventually the tears subsided, and she managed to shut her eyes, but not before putting in an order of pho from the Vietnamese place down the block. It wasn’t Mom’s chicken noodle soup, but it would have to do.

She wasn’t sure how long she drifted in the space between sleep and waking, but eventually the pressure in her sinuses abated. Maybe she’d be able to get some sleep tonight after all.

Against her hip, her phone buzzed.

Truly keyed in her password and stared blearily at the screen.

As if she’d manifested it through sheer will, a message from Mom sat at the top of her inbox. Truly’s heart rose into her throat. She couldn’t click the text fast enough.

Mom (7:32 p.m.): Your father and I would love it if you’d join us for brunch on Sunday. We need to talk to you.

Truly’s fragile heart plummeted into a pool of extra-corrosive stomach acid.

This was it. The moment she’d been dreading since that awful Sunday months ago when Mom and Dad first told her they were separating. Nothing good ever came from we need to talk. Those words could mean one thing and one thing only.

Mom and Dad had signed the DNR on their relationship and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Truly dragged herself into the bathroom, head pounding. She flipped on the overhead light and cringed. Her face was puffy, her eyes fever bright and her lids swollen, tear tracks dried on her blotchy cheeks. She reached for the mouthwash, desperately needing to erase the stale taste from her mouth, her hand bumping her toothbrush.

Not her toothbrush.

Colin’s, blue where hers was purple, both set in the holder by the sink, the bristles of their brushes kissing. Across the city, in his apartment, two almost identical toothbrushes sat in the cup beside his bathroom sink.

His comb had found a home beside her brush and beside that was his pomade and her flat iron, the cord wrapped around his cologne and—

Truly’s knuckles went white around the edge of the sink.

A knock sounded against the front door, jolting her from the panic creeping up her throat.

A dizzy spell hit her in the middle of the foyer, and she braced her hand against the wall. Food. She definitely needed to choke something down.

A second knock followed.

“Just a second!”

She stole in a deep breath and opened the door.

Colin stood on her doormat juggling several paper grocery bags, a plastic bag of takeout dangling precariously from one finger, which was turning white, handle cutting off his circulation.

“You’re not my Doordash.”

He chuckled and the sound warmed her all the way to her slipper-clad toes.

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