Page 114 of Truly, Madly, Deeply

“I’m not.” He buffed a kiss against her forehead, her skin undoubtedly clammy and gross, and slid around her and into her apartment. “But I did catch the delivery driver on the way into the courtyard. I figured I’d save ’em a trip to your door.”

She shut the door and followed Colin into the kitchen, where he was already in the process of unloading the groceries onto her counter.

“You weren’t exactly forthcoming with your symptoms, so I sort of bought out the pharmacy. Let’s see... we’ve got DayQuil, NyQuil, Robitussin Nighttime Cough, Claritin on the off chance it’s allergies, which”—he shot her a look that was all fond exasperation—“clearly, it’s not.”

She jammed the heel of her hand against her breastbone, trying to quell the ache inside her that no amount of cough syrup or fever reliever could fix.

“Colin... what is all of this?”

“This?” He held up a bottle of Emergen-C. “Vitamin C. Good for your immune system.”

“But—”

“I didn’t have your mom’s number,” he said, and her protests died on her tongue. “So I texted Lulu.”

He set several cans of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup on the counter.

“Lulu, fortunately, did have your mom’s number, so I gave her a call. Not to completely ruin your childhood, but it turns out her secret recipe is Campbell’s with a liberal dash of”—he grabbed a bottle of Tabasco from the bag—“hot sauce. She swears by it.”

She put a hand out, steadying herself against the fridge. “You... you talked to my mom? When?”

He looked up from the bag he was unpacking. “After you and I got off the phone. I called to ask for the recipe of the soup she used to make you.” He ducked his chin and laughed. “She thought it was sweet that you actually believed she made it from scratch.”

Colin reached inside the drawer beside the stove and pulled out a can opener she couldn’t remember buying. A can opener he didn’t have to hunt for, a can opener he just knew was there.

Just like Mom was the only one who could find Dad’s glasses when he misplaced them and Dad always knew exactly where Mom had left her keys.

No amount of uncoupling, conscious or otherwise, could untangle thirty-three years. Not without leaving scars behind.

“I can’t do this.”

Colin paused with the opener poised over a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. “I’ve got this. Go sit. Have you taken your temperature lately or—”

She cut him off with a quick jerk of her chin, biting down hard on her lip so it wouldn’t wobble.

“I mean”—she gestured between them—“this. I can’t do this.”

“Okay.” He set the can opener down carefully and braced his hands against the counter. “Let’s talk.”

She shook her head and that—that was a bad idea. Her head swam and she gripped the back of the closest barstool.

Colin practically threw himself across the counter in his haste to reach her. “Truly—”

She stole a step back, out of arm’s reach. If she let Colin touch her, she’d fold, and right now she needed to be strong and get this out.

That didn’t stop the stab of remorse from striking her sharply in the chest as soon as his face fell. “I’m fine. I’m... there’s nothing to talk about.” Nothing to say she hadn’t already said before. “I told you. I told you I’m not in the right headspace for—”

“And I distinctly remember telling you that whether or not I want to be with you is my choice.”

“So, I don’t get any say in the matter? I just have to go along with it because it’s what you want?” She scoffed. “That sounds healthy.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Your mom warned me you were a terrible patient, but—”

She thrust a finger at him, poking him in the chest. “Do not talk to me about my mother.”

Colin held up his hands, a mea culpa if ever there was one. “Forget I said that. Let me just make you this soup and—”

“God, would you quit?” she begged. Quit being so sweet, quit being so kind. “I—I am a mess, okay? A mess.”

---