Page 118 of The Thought of You

“I hope I didn’t intrude on your day. I’m so sorry. If you need to go, I’ll be fine,” I assure her.

In truth, it’s more so for my benefit. I’m not great at accepting help from my own friends, let alone someone I’ve only met once.

I hate being taken care of—this is actually my nightmare—but I meant what I said about the thoughtful gesture. And I’m too weak to stand my ground.

“Oh, don’t be silly. My boss is very understanding.” She winks.

“I don’t get it.”

“I work for my husband, darlin’.” She giggles, and it all makes sense. “Now, you eat up while I clean the mess I made in the kitchen right quick. I’ll be back to check on you.”

Through the fog hanging over my mind, I latch onto the word kitchen.

My mom.

The disaster.

So much mess.

“I’ll clean up, Dorothy!” I croak as I plop the spoon into the soup with a splash and a clink.

She stops with her hand on the doorknob. “You will do no such thing. You’re going to rest and pay no mind to anything other than that. I’m here to help, so let me help.”

Her tone is so strong, her words punctuated with finality. My overwhelming urge to protest still lingers, but arguing feels futile and even a little disrespectful.

I sink back into my seat, but my guilt and self-consciousness don’t dull.

Dorothy returns thirty minutes later to take the tray away, and my eyelids feel heavy again. My stomach is a little less queasy, thanks to the soup, but I’m still fatigued.

“Food poisoning,” she says.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my best guess for what you might have. You’re sweating, and your symptoms are far too abrupt and severe to be a stomach virus.” Her confidence alleviates my uncertainty, and I nod. “Which is a good thing.”

“How so?” I slide farther into the covers to lay my head on the pillow. I’m not normally so comfortable, even under these conditions, when relative strangers are around, but Dorothy makes it easy to let my guard down.

It’s probably where Owen gets it. As similar as I believed him to be to his father, he’s actually a lot like his mother.

“It means my son’s in the clear.” She smiles. “Stomach virus is contagious, but I don’t believe I need to worry about him.”

My mouth dries again, but it’s not because of my ailment. “He’s not… I mean, we’re not that close. I wouldn’t have gotten him sick. I work all the way on the other side of the gym from him,” I say as quickly as my feeble body allows.

She waves me off. “No need for any of that, Addie.”

Any of what?

That’s what I’d like to ask, but nothing comes out of my chapped lips.

“Now, any idea what you might’ve eaten to cause this? I know it was not my lasagna from last night.” She holds a finger up.

“Definitely not your lasagna. That was perfect in every way,” I gush, clutching my waist. More cramps amplify across my stomach, and I shift uncomfortably. “I suppose it could have been the eggs I made this morning? I didn’t check the date on the carton, as I was in a rush, but I don’t think they’ve been in my fridge that long.” I sigh. “I had chicken salad for lunch yesterday that might’ve been past its prime as well. I should really keep better track of that stuff. I’m normally great at it, but lately, I’ve had my dang head in the clouds.”

She tilts her head, and amusement bounces across her features.

I clamp my mouth shut, then backtrack. “I just mean, I’ve been taking some time for myself after a busy summer and start to the school year.”

She hums. “I’m going to whip you up some toast.”

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