Taylor

Noah follows me into the car soon after, but I don’t have the energy to open my eyes. I’m drifting off to sleep, and if he’s saying something, I’m too far gone to hear it.

The next time I wake up, I’m alone in the car, parked somewhere on the side of a street. I blink in a daze at a pharmacy close by, where I see Noah leave the shop with a bag. I feel like I’m floating underwater, unable to move. 

The car door clicks, and then Noah asks. “Taylor? Are you awake? Do you have a key to your house?”

I exhale and blindly point at the schoolbag at my feet.

Noah leans in and takes the bag, rummaging through it. The last thing I hear before sleep catches up on me is a jingle of keys.

The following process I barely register. There is movement and a warm embrace. I listen to the strong heartbeat close to my ear, while I'm bobbing up and down, wave after wave of nausea passing through me.

The next thing I know, I’m woken by a cold, wet cloth to my face. I scrunch up my nose and retreat my head like a turtle, humming my discontent.

“Are you awake? Get up. You need to eat and take medicine.”

Of all the voices, I did not expect it to be Noah’s. The shock is enough for me to snap my eyes open. Noah is close, helping me sit upright.

Why are you here? is what I mean to say, but all that comes out is a groggy, “What?”

Then it hits me. Right, he was the one to drive me home. I’m on the couch in our living room, now, though I don’t remember walking back into the house. I notice a tray with a glass of water, a cup of steaming tea, and a bowl of rice porridge on the side table.

I don’t get to ask anything because Noah is already shoving a spoonful of rice porridge in my face. “Eat.”

I follow his command without thinking. Only after Noah has already shovelled half the bowl into my mouth, I turn my face away. 

“No more.”

My voice is barely a whisper. I feel awful. Noah stops to grab a box of medicine and presses two tablets out of the blister pack. “Here, take these.”

He pushes them into my hand and offers me a glass of water. I gulp everything down my sore throat, only so Noah finally allows me to sink back into the cushions. 

“If your throat hurts, try to drink some of the ginger tea. I called your parents, your dad will try to leave work early.”

I turn to the side and grab his wrist. “You are leaving?” Every word hurts. I swallow, but it only worsens the pain. Tears gather in my eyes.

Noah dabs over my forehead with the cold towel. “No, I’ll stay.”

The simple promise is enough to relax me. He says more, but I’m unable to bring up the strength to listen.

The next time I’m woken, it’s by a rougher, warmer, and much more familiar hand. I feel like crying and immediately dive into my Dad’s arms.

“Hey, hey, buddy. I’ve got you.”

Dad pats my back and lightly rocks me back and forth. 

“I’m sick,” I whine.

A deep laugh rumbles through Dad’s body. “So I heard. Come on, let’s get you into your room.”

I don’t move and when nothing happens, I open one eye. Dad raises an eyebrow at me. “I’m no longer thirty, and you are no longer three, Taylor. You’ll have to walk up the stairs yourself.”

I groan. “But Noah carried me.”

Dad stills and looks to the side. “Did he?”

“It was that or let him die on the street,” a voice says behind me. To my horror, Noah is standing on the other side of the couch. He really didn’t leave? No, wait, that’s not important. I said it as a joke, but he actually carried me?! I shrink into the covers like a scandalized lady of the 19th century and croak, “Oh my god.” 

“Seems like the medicine is working,” Noah says with a chuckle.

Dad supports me while I get up, and I use the chance to wipe my nose on his sleeve. Dad grunts in disgust. “You wanna take him with you when you leave? I still have a box somewhere.”

I need a few seconds to understand he is talking to Noah. I hear Noah laugh, while I hit my Dad’s chest.

What follows is an awkward shuffle up the stairs. It doesn’t help that my legs are wobbly and that the steps are swirling. But we somehow make it. I sit down on my bed while Noah pulls back the blanket. 

The bedding is soothingly cool on my feverish skin. Before I can sink into it, Noah grabs me and puts a cup of tea in my hand. “Drink.”

Noah must have put honey in there, knowing I have a sweet tooth, and the concoction of warm ginger and honey eases the pain in my throat. 

Once I’ve finished the whole cup, Noah takes it away. “Lie down,” he orders, and, again, I comply. Then he pulls the blanket up to my chin and pats it above my chest for good measure. “Now sleep.”

From the door, Dad says, “You need to teach me that. He never listens to me that well.”

Noah looks between the two of us, then holds out a hand to me. 

“Paw.”

Dad laughs from where he is leaning against the door frame, while I try to sit up. “I’m not a dog!” 

My indignant complaint is undermined by the fact that my voice is barely audible, and a breathless wheezing follows my words.

Immediately, Noah is by my side and pours me another glass of water. “Sorry, sorry,” he chuckles.

Then he leans over and puts a white bag in Dad’s hand. “I bought this stuff for him at the pharmacy earlier. You should probably measure his temperature again. It was a little over 102 degrees earlier, so I hope the medicine managed to lower it.”

Dad grabs the bag and gives Noah a pat on the shoulder, “I will, thank you. And thank you for taking care of him, son.”

“Of course.”

Even in my delirious state, I register a weird expression on Noah’s face. I point at him. “You’re weird.”

Noah and Dad both look at me. “Are you sure you only gave him cold medicine?” Dad asks. Noah snorts and pats my arm as if to say goodbye.

“I am. But no guarantees for the school nurse. If he went there, he might have gotten his hands on the hard stuff.”

Dad laughs, but it seems oddly distant and echoey. The room is turning around me, and the last thing I see as I sway backwards into the cushions is Noah’s wide eyes. 

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