Page 46 of Play On

I groan in misery and reach for my phone. I’m not going to text this to Noah, that I need to cancel. I’m afraid he’ll think it’s me flaking out again. He needs to hear my stuffed-up head and scratchy voice to know the last thing in the world I want to do is cancel this date tonight.

Let’s see. It’s eight-thirty. I’ll text him and see if he’s up first:

Hey, need to talk to you. Call me when you can.

Then I hit send.

Ugh. I need to get up and start chugging fluids and suck on some disgusting menthol drops ASAP.

I push myself to an upright position. My head feels ridiculously heavy. Fab.

I make my way to the bathroom and turn on the light. Then I gasp when I see myself.

I look hideous.

My pale skin is colourless. My peaches-and-cream complexion has been replaced by the colour of copy paper. My eyes are red and irritated, and my nose will be red as soon as I start blowing it.

“Ugh,” I groan.

I finish up in the bathroom, grab my phone and the box of tissues off the bedside table, and head downstairs to the kitchen. I need tea and honey for this throat. That’s the only thing that sounds good right now.

Just as I fill the kettle with water, my phone rings. I glance down and see it is Noah.

“Hey,” I say, sniffling. “Thanks for calling me.”

GAH. My voice soundsawful.

“Did you just wake up?” Noah asks.

“Yes, but I’m really sick, Noah,” I say regretfully. “I woke up feeling like crap. I have a sore throat, stuffy nose, it’s a total head cold.”

“You sound terrible,” he concedes.

“I wanted to talk to you so you could hear it,” I say. “Because obviously I cannot go out tonight, but I wanted to assure you that I am not flaking out on you again. I wanted to go out tonight so badly, and I’m so pissed off that I’m sick.”

Noah is quiet for a moment. Then he finally speaks. “Violet, I don’t think you’re a flake,” he says softly. “You don’t have to prove to me you’re sick. If you would have texted me, I would have believed you.”

My sore throat swells, and not from sickness. I’m so used to everyone calling me a butterfly—which is a nice code word for flake—that I expected him to do the same.

And the fact that Noah can see other things in me, greater things than anyone else, means more than he could ever know.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice thick.

“So what can I do for you? Do you need me to take you to a doctor?” he asks.

I blink. What?

“You want to take me to a doctor?”

“Well, you’re sick, aren’t you?”

“It’s a head cold. I know I got it from the classroom yesterday. I was sitting next to a sick child, and she generously shared her crayons and virus with me.”

Noah chuckles. “That will do it. Kids are petri dishes of germs.”

“I’m going to take a Covid test just to make sure it’s not that, but I’m fairly certain it’s a nasty cold.”

“All right. What can I bring you?”

---