Page 34 of I’m Already Gone

Lily

Age 17

“Sweetheart?”

A pained groan, more of a guttural rumble, escaped my lips as hands gently rocked me awake. My head felt like a bowling ball.

“Sweetheart?” Mom repeated.

I forced my eyes open, the light from the window stinging slightly, to see her standing beside me. Her brow was furrowed with that “concerned Mom” look.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, pressing her palm against my forehead.

“Still sick,” I croaked, sounding like I’d swallowed sandpaper. My nose was completely blocked, and my throat felt raw. I woke up this morning feeling like I’d been run over by a truck. Being sick really sucked balls.

“You’re still warm, honey. I’m going to take your temp and get you some meds. How does a bowl of soup sound?” she offered, already moving toward the door.

“Mom, please. I can’t eat anything. I want to sleep,” I mumbled, pulling the covers higher, cocooning myself up to my chin. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping she’d just let me drift off again.

“So, I take it you’re not in the mood for a certain visitor?” she asked, her tone suddenly playful.

One eyelid grudgingly flickered open. She smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. My heart did a quick, frantic skip-to-my-Lou at the mere thought.

“Who is it?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but my voice betrayed a hint of eagerness.

“Ethan. I can tell him to come back tom⁠—”

“No!” I coughed, the unexpected interruption sending a jolt through my chest. “I mean, it’s okay. I can… I can see him.”

Mom chuckled. “Alright. I’ll go get your meds and tell him to come up.” She walked away, and a few seconds later, a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

Ethan.

He stood there with a bouquet of soft pastel purple roses and creamy white lilies in one hand, and a sleek silver box tied with a pretty lilac bow tucked underneath his armpit.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he said, his voice a low, comforting rumble. He flashed that bright smile that always seemed to warm me from the inside out, even now when I felt like a frozen zombie. He looked impossibly good in a casual light gray short-sleeve shirt, board shorts, and a pair of sunglasses perched on top of his messy hair.

Great. He looked like he stepped out of a summer catalog, while I was pretty sure I resembled a contagious, snot-filled, germ factory. My hair was probably matted, my eyes puffy, and my nose Rudolph-red.

“Hi. What are you doing here?” I asked.

“You’re sick,” he said, like I’d asked the dumbest question on Earth.

He sat on the edge of my bed and set the vase of flowers on my nightstand.

“And I was worried, so I wanted to check in on you,” he added, placing the gift box next to my hip.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” I said softly, a blush warming my cheeks. “A text would have been enough.”

He leaned closer, a playful glint in his eyes as he arched an eyebrow. “And risk you turning me down?” His lips curved upward into a confident grin. “I don’t think so.”

I bit back a smile, a flutter starting in my stomach, and tried to look nonchalant, despite the giddiness threatening to burst out of me like confetti. When I tried to sit up, a sharp ache moved through my bones, and I winced.

“Do you need help sitting up?” he asked, his hand hovering, ready to assist.

“I don’t want you to get sick,” I insisted, starting to push myself up again. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the dizzy spell, and managed to prop myself against the headboard.

“I’m not worried about that, Lily.” He picked up the silver box and set it on my lap. “Here, open it.”