Page 44 of Don't Call Me Sweetheart

But that didn’t stop me from worrying all the way home.

Max

The knock on the door was out of tempo with the pounding in my head. Death suddenly seemed like a preferable option. I would have yanked the door open but I couldn’t summon the energy, so instead, I sort of half leaned against it as I opened it, fully expecting to find a package left by a delivery driver on the other side.

Instead, I found Kate, a plastic container of something in her hands and a reusable shopping bag slung over her shoulder.

“No,” I said desperately. She couldn’t see me like this. Snotty and weak and all-around pathetic. I felt vulnerable and naked, the ancient, moth-eaten sweater and flannel pajama bottoms I wore and my bare feet not helping matters any.

“Your opposition has been noted,” she said, pushing past me into the house. “And overruled.”

I would have argued that she had no such authority, what with this being my damn house and all, plus the undeniable fact that I was an adult and she was not the boss of me, but that would have taken words, and I was already out of breath from opening the door. All I could do was shut the door behind her and follow her in.

From my vantage point of the couch, I could see her bustling around the kitchen, emptying her shopping bag into the refrigerator and freezer. Why was she here? It was early afternoon on a Tuesday. She should be at Sweet Things.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Much better than yesterday.” A bold lie, considering she had eyes.

She didn’t respond. Maybe she hadn’t heard me—it wasn’t like I could take in a lungful of air to raise my voice—or maybe she figured it wasn’t worth arguing when we both knew the truth.

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, she was standing next to me, her brown hair falling forward like a waterfall as she bent toward me, her expression furrowed in concern. I blinked and she straightened.

“I brought you chicken soup.” She held out the container to me. “Doesn’t it smell good? It’s the lemongrass. Lemongrass is good for colds. Do you want some?”

I stared at the container. I tried to sniff and only succeeded in making an embarrassing honking noise. “I can’t smell anything,” I said miserably. It could not be denied that I was whining.

“I know, honey,” she said, her voice as warm and soothing as the word.

I couldn’t breathe, and now it wasn’t only because my nose was filled with mucus.

Honey.

No one had ever called me that. No one had ever called me anything except Max. I was aware that pet names existed, of course. Students called each other all sorts of schmaltzy things in the hallways. Baby and angel and so forth. Parents dropping their kids off were even more ridiculous: pumpkin, bean, bug. But it was never for me. I hadn’t even known I wanted it.

Now I knew.

And the way she had said it, as though I was honey, sweet and precious. It ripped me open, hollowed me out, filled me up again with something thick and golden.

“I’m not hungry,” I said, almost angrily, because how dare she, now when I was at my worst. Then immediately regretted it. Now she would know I was an asshole, I wasn’t worth it, and she shouldn’t waste her efforts on me. She would never call me honey again, and how was I supposed to live without it?

But she just smiled at me like I wasn’t being a total jackass, snapped the top back on the container, and headed into the kitchen. “Maybe later, then. I’ll put it in the refrigerator until you’re ready for it.”

“Maybe after I go to the pharmacy,” I muttered, like it was an apology. “I went to the doctor this morning. It turns out I have a sinus infection and ear infection brought on by my ragweed allergy. Dr. O’Hare gave me a prescription for antibiotics for the ear infection and suggested I take some anti-inflammatories.” I should have picked up the antibiotics right then, but it was an hour-long wait for the medication to be ready, and I had strongly doubted my abilities to remain upright for that long.

“I’ll pick it up for you,” she said, returning from the kitchen.

She contemplated me for a moment, then pressed the back of her hand to my forehead, another first for me. It was so stupid—a thermometer would be more accurate—but I couldn’t stop myself from leaning into her touch, just a little.

“A low fever,” she pronounced. “Probably not higher than 100.5. I’ll run you a bath before I go.”

My eyes, which had drifted closed, popped back open. “What?”

“A bath. It will make you feel better.”

She was already moving away, looking around for the bathroom. She headed down the hallway. A moment later, I heard the water running, and she reappeared to grab her shopping bag from the kitchen.

“Come on,” she called over her shoulder.

I struggled to my feet and followed her into the bathroom in time to see her pour a bag of salt into the tub. Steam curled up from the water invitingly.

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