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OLIVIA
Ijust had the strangest dream.
Tuck was here. Taking care of me for some reason. Maybe because I slipped and hurt myself? But why wouldn’t Summer be here to do that? Maybe she had to travel for a violin competition or something.
Anyway, Tuck was here. Taking care of me. That should sound more like a nightmare, right? But it wasn’t. He was caring, and gentle, and sweet. It felt good. He fed me soup. Homemade. His grandma’s secret recipe. It was delicious.
Why’s it so hard to sit up? Or even to open my eyes?
Am I on the couch? I’m able to crack my eyes open just a bit, and through the narrow slice of vision, I recognize the pattern of my blanket. On the back of my head is the familiar sensation of my pillow. Why would I have taken my blanket and pillow downstairs and slept on the couch?
“Are you up?”
A weak kind of surprise hits me, like I’m somehow not strong enough to feel as much surprise as I should at hearing Tuck’s voice.
I know it’s not a dream. He’s really here? Why?
Then I realize it when I summon my strength to try and sit up. Aches pang all over me, my muscles tired and sore. A shiver rushes through me. I feel a wave of discomfort and weakness, and I give up the thought of trying to move at all.
At least I can open my eyes wider and turn my head to the source of the sound to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Sure enough, Tuck sits in the chair next to the couch. My eyebrows scrunch when I notice he’s holding a copy of Emma.
Tuck McCoy in my living room reading Jane Austen while I’m just stirring from being passed out on the couch. Am I sure this isn’t still a dream?
Then I realize none of it was. I remember coming down with a cold Sunday night, waking up feeling like death Monday morning. Summer even wanted to stay home from the concert Hudson was going to take her to, but I put my foot down and demanded she go.
Did Summer or Hudson text Tuck to have him come over and take care of me?
And he did it? How long has he been sitting there?
My chest squeezes at the thought, a light and almost giddy feeling humming through me. If I had more strength, I’d clamp down on the feeling and chase it away, because it’s not something I should be feeling where Tuck is concerned.
But I don’t have the strength to do it, so I let the feeling buoy inside me.
My stomach growls. Maybe some more of Tuck’s homemade chicken soup will give me strength. It must be a loud growl, because Tuck’s lips curl into a grin and he asks, “Hungry?”
I dip my chin in a shallow nod. “More of your grandma’s chicken soup?” I ask.
Tuck tilts his head, an amused expression carving on his features. Then he just shakes his head and pushes up from the chair. “You got it. Grandma Campbell’s recipe coming right up.”
I lose a couple minutes sinking back into sleep before Tuck’s by my side, nudging me awake and holding a bowl as he kneels next to me. He ladles the soup into my mouth, feeding me. It’s an intimate feeling, and now there’s another surge of a cozy, comfortable emotion thrumming in my chest.
He feeds me about a third of the bowl before I’m full. I’m summoning the strength to tell him that I’ll be okay, that I can take care of myself, that he should go home and do whatever he needs to do instead of wasting his day here with me.
But before I can open my mouth, I’m asleep again.
The next time my eyelids flutter open, it’s dark except for the soft light of a lamp on the other side of the living room. Tuck’s moved, sitting on the chair closest to the lamp, still reading Emma. He’s about halfway through.
“What time is it?” My throat feels tight and dry as the words croak out.
Tuck looks up from the book. “Little past eight-thirty.”
“You should go home.”
“No way.” Tuck’s response is immediate. His tone tells me there’s no point in trying to argue with him, even if I had the energy to do so.
“Where will you sleep?”
