Page 139 of Can't Help Falling

Soup. Bread. Ginger Ale.

Flowers.

Flowers?

Hmm. Maybe not. Maybe just the soup and the. . .

Reagan seems to notice I’m not listening because she waves her hand at me to get my attention. “Hey, you okay? It looks like you’ve already got a plan, so go, stop wasting time talking to me,” she smiles.

I nod and start to walk away.

“Good luck, Romeo,” she calls after me.

“We’re just friends,” I call over my shoulder, but she waves me off.

Does everyone in town think I have feelings for Emmy or what?

I pick up two kinds of chicken soup, one with rice and one with noodles, at the “Just in Thyme” booth, and when I mention it’s for Emmy, Susannah, the owner, tells me I need ginger candy. She points a few booths down. “Candy Junction makes their own. It’s really good. It’ll settle her stomach.”

I nod, thank her, and head to Candy Junction. I pick up the ginger candy, another loaf of bread, and head back to my truck before anyone else stalls me by giving me more advice.

I drive out to her parents’ house, turn down the gravel driveway, and park outside behind Emmy’s car.

As I reach for the door handle, I stop, suddenly nervous.

What am I doing here?

This might be a really stupid idea.

I shake my head. I really want to make sure she’s okay.

I don’t have to re-listen to that podcast to know “taking care of her when she’s sick” is on the list.

Some sort of rom-com thing, I guess?

And if Emmy really is like The Hopeful Romantic, then I suppose this is a good idea.

Doesn’t seem all that romantic to watch someone throw up, but I guess I’m not really an authority. And romance aside, this just seems like the nice thing to do.

I grab the bags and walk up to the door. I knock before I can change my mind but hear nothing inside. Odds are, Emmy is asleep.

I turn a circle on the porch. I should just leave the stuff and go.

But then I turn back and try the door. It’s open. Did she really not lock the door last night? I’ll have to get on her about that, but in this instance, it works in my favor. I step inside. “Emmy?”

No response.

I take the bags into the kitchen, then slowly, as quietly as possible, walk up the stairs. The Smart house is old and creaky, and it occurs to me that I might scare her. Am I a creep for even being here?

I reach the top of the stairs and realize I have no idea which room is hers. I glance in the first door. No sign of anyone, only of tons of photos taped to the wall. I step over to the next door, and there, dead asleep and holding a large bucket, is Emmy. Her leg is hanging off the side of the bed and her mouth is half-open.

She looks stark white and adorable.

I step inside and gently take the bucket out of her hands. Her eyes flutter open and she tries to focus on me. “Wait. My. . .bucket. . .”

She presses her lips together, then smacks them apart. “Owen?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you, go back to sleep.”

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