Page 59 of Elf-ish

Jude’s donation was generous, but what does it mean? When did he do it? And why?

I spin back for my beer, apologizing to Sullivan, the bartender, for making a mess. Lifting my glass, I take one whiff of the pale ale and decide I’m not thirsty after all. My throat is really scratchy.

Along with my heart.

+ + +

While I’d had full intention of storming into Ashford’s and demanding what the hell Jude thought he was doing, I decided a donation was a donation, and Zebb’s foundation could use the money.

Also, I was officially sick. Fever. Chills. Headache. Stuffy nose. Sore throat. And as much as I didn’t think Jude would be sick, I still felt obligated to inform him of my plight. The flu was no joke. Other viral diseases were even worse.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I sent him what I considered an obligatory text.

Hey. Just wanted to let you know I’m sick. I hope I didn’t pass anything on to you.

I hit send before re-reading the text that sounds like I’m warning him about an STD, and I’d love to delete the message, but I’m too tired to care.

Instead, I power through a second message.

Thanks for the generous donation to A Snowball’s Chance. The foundation will put it to good use.

I click off my phone, snuggle deeper into my bed, and fall back asleep until the hammering in my head becomes too much.

“Holy snowballs,” I whimper as I clutch at my skull and curse the rattling at the front door, which happens to match the thumping in my head. As my family members all have a key to my place, I’m assuming the urgency is from a misplaced delivery person. Sometimes a food service pops into the building and knocks on the wrong apartment.

When the thump-thump-thump continues, I peel myself out of bed, wrap the duvet around me, and shuffle to the front door.

“No one’s home,” I attempt to holler, though the sound is closer to a bark.

“Angel?” A pause. “Angelica, open up.”

Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin, but then the voice registers.

Jude?

Slowly, I step forward, twist the deadbolt, unlatch a second upper lock and turn the knob. I’d say he’s a sight for sore eyes, but my eyelids are heavy. The walk to the door took all my energy. I don’t even ask why he’s here, I just turn for my living room, stumble to the couch, and collapse onto the three cushions.

“Holy shit. What’s wrong with you?”

“Hi, Jude. Great to see you again. Thanks for the donation. Get out.” Only the words all sort of roll together, and I’m not even certain any of them came out of my mouth.

He doesn’t respond, but after a minute his cold hand covers my forehead, and I snuggle into the touch despite a shiver that runs down my spine.

“Hmm. That feels nice,” I purr.

“You’re burning up.”

“Yep. I’m hot.” I attempt to smile, giggling at my own joke. I’m a hot mess. I haven’t showered and a funky smell is coming off me.

Wait. What day is it?

“Friday,” Jude answers, because I guess I asked out loud.

“Friday,” I whisper, like it’s the greatest day of the week, but I work odd hours, so I don’t really have weekends. More like midweeks. Sometimes Mondays.

And it’s been twenty-four hours since I’ve messaged Jude.

“How did this happen?” he asks as if people schedule getting sick.