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She laughs. “No, I mean it. Don’t beat yourself up for past mistakes or ‘bad decisions.’” She uses her fingers to make quotation marks when she says bad decisions. “Because I think you’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
Her words warm my chest. I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be. Maybe for the first time ever.
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “And consider that apology one and done. I don’t need any more sorrys from you, Sam.”
“Good,” I quip, “because you weren’t getting another one.”
“Hey!”
We both laugh again as Chase pulls his truck up to the curb. I push off the wall and walk forward.
“Oakley,” I say right before she opens the door, grabbing her hand to stop her. “Thanks.”
She winks at me and squeezes my hand. “Anytime, friend.”
For the first time since we broke up during our freshman year of college, we genuinely feel like friends. And I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe sometimes, the wrong choices get us to the right places.
And time has proven to heal old wounds.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EMERSON
“I made you some chicken soup,” Milo declares, looking at my disheveled appearance with sympathy.
“Thanks,” I say, sniffing and rubbing the tip of my red nose. I’ve blown it so many times that it feels raw, just like the rest of me.
“I’m leaving,” he announces.
“Good call,” I say, taking a seat at the island and pulling the bowl closer. “I’m one giant germ right now.”
He chuckles. “I’ve already had the flu this year, so I’m probably good.” He moves closer to the door.
“You say that”—I lift the spoon—“but there are different strains. You could still get what I have.”
He cringes. “Well, on that note, I’m definitely outta here.”
I try to laugh, but I’m too weak, and my body still aches too much. I start coughing instead.
The door shuts behind Milo, leaving the apartment blissfully quiet. I slurp the broth once my coughing fit subsides, enjoying the heat as it travels down my throat and warms my blood. I don’t know how bad viruses like the flu do it, but it’s left me chilled to the bone for the past four days, like I was stuck in the middle of a blizzard, stark naked. I piled blankets on top of my bed and my body, then would awaken an hour or so later, drenched in sweat. It was a vicious cycle. Today is the first time I’ve felt almost human again. It’s also the first time I’ve ventured outside of my room.
I check my phone. No new messages. Everyone that normally calls or texts knows that I’ve been on my death bed this week, so they’ve left me alone. The only thing I’ve had energy for is to roll over in bed and occasionally visit my bathroom.
Sam has been on the road, though he’s due back today. I’ve checked in with him every day to make sure he didn’t come down with the bubonic plague like me. He hasn’t so far. After two to three days passed, the doctor said we’re probably in the clear. But he doesn’t know that we swapped spit the night before I got sick. In fact, no one knows it. Not even Suki.
I could blame my weakened state for the lack of communication, but that would be a lie. The truth is, I’ve held that moment close to the vest. I want it to be mine and only mine for now. I’m still not sure it actually happened. Maybe I was delirious from early illness that night or from too much alcohol and imagined the whole thing. No, if I had imagined it, I wouldn’t have stopped with a kiss.
I slowly eat a piece of chicken, chewing for longer than necessary to make sure my stomach is going to tolerate the food. I’ve stuck to a mainly liquid diet the past few days, so the soup tastes extra delicious.
My phone pings with a text. I glance down to see Sam’s name on the screen, and my heart skips a beat. I admonish myself, wondering when I became this girl and when exactly Sam became something different to me.
Sam: Are you feeling better?
Me: Yes. Finally.
