"I don't know."
I cough over his shoulder. He doesn't let go because—aside from one stupid, reckless, beautiful night—he's been the one I can counton to keep me steady. I don't understand everything that's happened between us, or where he and I can possibly go from here, but Mateo has been mine since the night we met. I can't make that any less true this morning. I’ll look for a way to make it more true tomorrow. For now, the deep breath I take is the best I can do with lungs that hate me.
As I drift off, I mumble against his cheek. "I'm sorry I said there was nothing for Harper to know. There's always been something."
Mateo sighs again. "Sleep, sweetheart."
I do. So does he. At some point, he wakes up to fetch the pill bottles and more water. Before I fall asleep again, he adjusts us both so I can lie with my head in his lap and his hand in my hair. Later, I get up to pee against my will, but he's still there when I return. I've lost all track of time.
"Stay here," he says when he finally stands again. "I'm making a late lunch. Or an early dinner."
I'm planning to ask what he's making when I close my eyes again, my body demanding the rest it's been denied for days. The white noise from the tv blurs with the clatter in the kitchen. I sleep heavily enough to be grateful when Mateo wakes me gently. His fingertips brush along the side of my neck. Then he kisses my forehead because we decided a while ago that it's something friends do.
He pulls away, and I see my late lunch or early dinner on the coffee table. "Looks delicious."
"My grandmother's tortilla soup," he says. "It's the first time I've made it since she died, but it's—I think it'll help with some of the congestion. She swore it was better than chicken noodle, and I—"
"You weren't gonna argue with her."
"Absolutely not."
As I sit up, Mateo drapes the blanket over my shoulders and ducks the next several coughs. I still feel like shit, but I'm more alert shitnow. I wasn't lying about how good the soup looks.
My stomach growls. He smiles.
The bowl is hot in my hand, but the warmth feels good. I'm not shaking when I reach for the spoon. Mateo stays near me anyway, uninterested in babying me, but even less interested in keeping his distance while I take my first bite of his soup. Then a second, and a third.
"Jesus, this is really good."
"Why do you sound surprised?" he asks.
I frown because some of it's surprise, but more of it's regret—the reminder of missed opportunities. "You and I usually ordered takeout. Or hit Kai's. Or went out for Mexican with Sophie. Or drove up and down the coast on a dozen secret adventures. We didn't do any of this."
"No, I guess we didn't."
"But you loved making this soup today. I can tell."
Mateo nods, wary. "Yes, I loved making it."
"Do you cook for Logan?"
"Jamie. Don't."
"Do you love—"
"Stop."
I obey him, mostly because his fingers are against my lips, and all I can think about is the night I came with them in my mouth. Instead of wrapping my lips around them now, I move to swallow another spoonful of soup. I hate that it doesn't taste the same as it did a minute ago.
"Are you going to spend the night again?"
He'd implied as much when he was worried about living out of my suitcase, but I was weaker and quieter then. If I keep eating, he'll be able to leave without dragging a guilty conscience behind him, his work here done. We'll exchange a few texts about how I'm feeling. IfI'm lucky, I'll see him another year or two from now.
When I start to cough—the pneumonia to blame more than anything—he takes the bowl away and returns it to the coffee table. I don't know whether it's enough to undo the trouble I've just borrowed, but I help myself to water and wait for him to answer. My dramatics aside, he doesn't need to stay, and we both know it. I want him to, and we both know that, too. My chest is almost clear for now, and it makes the tv suddenly loud. I turn it off just as Mateo walks away.
He's in the kitchen before he speaks. "When are you flying back to New Jersey?"
"Not before bedtime."