Page 85 of Branded Hearts

I’m not fine. No. Definitely not.

Whatever mentality I had this morning? Gone. Out the window. It has now almost been a whole day, and I have gotten progressively worse. After I got off the phone from Liv, I fell back asleep and didn’t wake up until lunchtime, to which I proceeded to vomit multiple times. What, you ask?

Nothing! Literally just stomach acid.

Disgusting.

I have always hated vomiting, and it’s not like a bad case of emetophobia, just the whole feeling you get afterward. Scratchy throat, severe chest pains, and fatigue. The clock ticks away, and it’s already four thirty in the afternoon. Earlier, I had the sense to call Mum for advice on how to shake off this sickness in record time. Her remedy? Hydrationandsoup. A bigyesto soup! She offered to whip up her famous chicken broth soup and promised to swing by before five. Instantly, a wave of gratitude washed over me.

Bless her.

I’m draped over the couch, and yes, I say draped because that’s exactly how I am. I can’t lie down flat without feeling like I’ll spew, and sitting up straight is just uncomfortable. So, here I am, stuck in this awkward in-between, half sitting, half lying down, with my blanket tucked up under my chin to help with the shivers. A glass ofHydralyte sits within arm’s reach on the coffee table, while the familiar banter ofFriendsprovides a faint distraction from my misery. Suddenly, I hear a hard knock on my door.

I drag myself off the couch, blanket still wrapped around me, and shuffle slowly to the door. With a sigh, I reach out and twist the doorknob, not expecting much. But as I swing the door open, a gasp escapes me. Standing there, on my doorstep, is not my mother.

No. It’sBradley.

I stand there in shock, staring at Bradley as he holds out a plastic bag and a large Tupperware container filled with a brownish liquid. Is that my mum’s soup? I blink, trying to process the sight.

“Hi, sunshine,” he says, leaning against the door frame. His hulking frame fills the entire space. Holy crap. “You gonna let me in, or?” His words trail off with a smirk, snapping me out of my stupor. I quickly close my gaping mouth. Is it... rude if Ipolitelydecline? Can I even do that?

My mind races as I internally panic. I mean, look at me. I’m a mess—baggy pyjamas, hair a ratty nest, skin as pale as a ghost. The last person I ever wanted to see me like this is Bradley, and yet, here he is, gracing my doorstep, with all his ruggedness and muscles. He’s dressed in dark blue cargo pants, Stanley boots, and a black t-shirt. He must’ve come straight from work. I blink a few more times, hoping maybe he’ll disappear if I blink hard enough.

Nope. He’s still here.

Looking as real and as handsome as ever.

27

I’ll be there for you - Brent Morgan

“Uh, what... what are you doing here? Where’s my mum?” Amelia asks weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I ran into her at the supermarket. She told me she was coming by to bring you soup, so… I offered to bring it for her instead. You know, since it’s on the way home and all,” I explain.

“Oh. That’s… that was nice of you. Thanks, Brad,” she says, her cheeks flushing as she tries to hide her face. She wraps the blanket around herself tighter, and it’s only then that I notice her appearance. Normally, I’d find this amusing, but right now, I’m more concerned. She looks really sick. She’s in her pyjamas, her skin so pale. I’ve never seen her like this before. She’s always so vibrant and full of life. Seeing her like this, so vulnerable, it tugs at something inside me.

“Are you gonna let me in, or are you planning on standing there all day?” I repeat my question, trying to lighten the mood. She gives me a weak smile and steps aside, allowing me to enter.

As I step inside, I can’t help but notice the slight mess in her apartment. Amelia quickly starts apologising, her wordstumbling out in a rush.

“I’m so sorry about the mess. I haven’t had the energy to clean, and everything’s just—”

I manage a small smirk, cutting her off. “Amelia, don’t apologise. Please. It’s fine.” I glance around, taking in the surroundings. “Have you seen Liv’s room when she’s in a state of panic? Absolute brothel. This,” I say, fanning my hand out, “this is nothing.”

Amelia’s features soften for a moment. “Okay.”

Is there ever a moment where the mention of my sister is not brought up? As much as I love my sister, the thought of her lingering in my mind, whilst being around Amelia, isn’t exactly what I want to be picturing or thinking about right now. I clear my throat, moving to place the plastic bags on her small kitchen counter.

“Your mum insisted I bring herfamous chicken soup,” I say, smiling as Amelia laughs softly. “And I grabbed a few things from the shops. She mentioned something about food poisoning.”

I start pulling out the items and placing them on the counter: a tissue box, Panadol, GastroStop, and some Hydralyte ice blocks. As I set down the last item, I turn to see Amelia standing there, a look of surprise on her face.

“What?” I ask.

She looks so innocent, with those doll eyes of hers piercing into mine. Damn, she has the prettiest eyes. Girls always used to fawn over mine, Xavier included, yet there’s a sense of warm comfort emanating from her brown eyes. I’ve said it before, but every single time, it hits me anew.

It’s strange. When we’re together, it feels like there’s a deep connection, one that has always been there. But when we’re apart, it’s as if we’re strangers.

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