Page 35 of Years in the Making

“Why?”

“Because I don’t believe you’re only twenty-two. What twenty-two-year-old says things like that?”

He shrugs, dropping his arms and taking my hand again. “What can I say, I’m an old soul. Now I want to go meet Mr. Fitzgibbons, the man I’m in competition with.” Teddy begins pulling me in the wrong direction, and I stand my ground, halting his progress.

When he looks back at me I point towards the opposite side of the room. “The feathered love of my life is that way.”

At nine weeks, Teddy’s parents have shown up at five more games, and I swear he plays better than ever when they’re there. His smiles were as much for me as they were for his parents, particularly his mom.

During the few hours I’d spent with Teddy’s mom and dad,I’d seen bits of Teddy in each of them. He has his mom’s eyes and wavy dark hair while his laugh and height are all his dad’s. At the third game, his mom took my hand and held it for most of the game, squeezing when she needed to cheer so I’d cheer a bit harder for both of us. That night, she’d touched my cheek when they said goodbye, and Teddy blushed from his nose to his ears. When I asked what it meant later, he had just kissed me followed by a murmured thank-you. I didn’t understand what he was thanking me for, but I didn’t want to stop kissing him to ask.

I’m still riding the high of his post-game kisses the next morning while helping my dad prepare for another quick work trip when I start to feel a bit off. My mom asks quietly if I’m pregnant. Unless you can be impregnated by aggressive over-the-clothes action, there is no possible way that I could be. Still, she insists that she is more than happy to stay home with me, the perfect excuse for not going on another bird-related trip. I know she’ll have a good time, though. She’s never been good with the buildup of things, so I push her out the door, insisting I will be fine.

By nine a.m. Saturday morning, I’m curled up next to the toilet after texting my boss to let her know I won’t be making it in today. I feel bad as it’s pouring, which means the library will likely be busy with parents trying to occupy their kids. Just thinking of the energy it takes to deal with children all day has me retching.

Around noon, I get myself down to the couch with the designated puke bowl from my childhood, a sleeve of saltines, and a bottle of some electrolyte drink my mom keeps on hand for heavy workout days.

Enviro Guy

Game is canceled tonight, want to do an early dinner?

I look at Teddy’s message and immediately feel my stomach flip. Something it always does when I see a text from him, but this was definitely more to do with the thought of dinner than the guy I was falling for.

Can’t. I’m sick.

Oh no! Want me to come over?

No! I’m probably contagious. I’m just going to slowly die on the couch while watching a British period drama.

An hour later, there is still no reply from Teddy. Thirty minutes after that, there’s a knock at the door. I lay there glaring through the house, willing the person to go away. There’s another knock before I hear it open. If I had any energy at all I would be running to the kitchen and grabbing a knife, but instead, I lay there, accepting that I was about to be killed, robbed, or both. And then Teddy walks around the corner.

“What are you doing here?” I screech, horrified that he is seeing me decked out in sick girl couture.

“You’re sick.” He shrugs, walking towards me holding a large canvas bag.

“I know, that’s why I told you not to come over,” I mumble.

“Why? Because you didn’t want me to see you sick? You still look hot, for the record.”

I roll my eyes and sit up a bit. “No, doofus, because I don’t want to get you sick!”

He shrugs again. “I have the immune system of a bat.”

I stare at him. “I don’t know what that means. Do bats have good immune systems?”

“One of the best,” he says, plopping down next to me. “I brought you sustenance.” He puts the bag down and begins pulling things out. A heating pad, Gravol, ginger ale, tissues, crackers, a loaf of bread, the book he’d bought with me, a container of some kind of liquid, and a box of tea bags.

“You didn’t even know what was wrong with me. What if I just had a headache?”

“You said you were contagious.”

“Right, I did say that.” I give him a small smile. “What’s that?” I point at the container with the mystery liquid.

“Soup.”

“Did you make it?”

“Not this one. This is one of Zoe’s creations.” He picks it up and tips it back and forth. “Don’t tell her I told you, but she is the better soup maker between the two of us.”

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