Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 471(@300wpm)
Tyler and his notes.
There’s also some white panties and a sports bra too. A stupid smile spreads as I unfold the note.
Hi.
Hope you feel better. You slept all night. Okay. Not the WHOLE night. You woke up once in the middle of the night and we had a very brief conversation, but I promise you only divulged your social security number and all your bank account information. In any case, if I’m not here, it’s because I went downstairs to change the cat litter and feed the kitten—like Drama would let me do anything else. She’s demanding. Also, I did grab some clothes for you in the middle of the night in case you want to shower. I left out a toothbrush on the bathroom counter too. Since I know you’re obsessed with minty breath. And I shut the door in case you just want to spend the day in bed doing none of those things.
But if you’re up for food, I’m ordering some bagels right now since I know you love those.
With avocado.
Unless the thought of avocado makes you want to hurl. In which case, pretend I never said avocado.
—T
My heart swells even more. I do love bagels so much. I also want to feel human again so I head straight for Tyler’s spacious rainfall shower and indulge.
When I’m out of the shower, I pull on the fresh clothes, towel-dry my hair, then twist it into a makeshift bun since he left my hair tie on the counter for me.
Of course he did.
I pad downstairs still feeling a little tired and slow but mostly better. When I reach the first level, the faint sounds of a familiar song drift from the kitchen. It’s Camden, the pop singer, and her bold, brassy voice is like a calling card that tells me Tyler’s in there.
I feel weirdly…shy.
Having him see me like that last night was uncomfortable.
I walk into the kitchen, where he’s putting something in the fridge. I stop at the island. When he turns around, the fridge door shutting, his hazel eyes light up. He gives me the warmest smile. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
“Are you feeling any better?”
“Yes,” I say, then quickly amend it to “mostly.” I shift gears since I don’t like talking about how I feel. “How’s Parker?”
A smile shifts his lips. “All better. I talked to my mom. He’s back at school, and Luna too, of course. She never caught it.”
“Good. That’s a relief. Thank you for everything.” Then I’m quiet for several seconds, weighing how far to go. But he carried me upstairs and gave me meds and Gatorade, and watched skating videos and left out clothes for me. I swallow down my pride. “I hate being sick.”
His eyes soften, and he gives a gentle nod. “I had a feeling. But it’s okay, Sabrina. It happens to everyone.”
“But I don’t like it when it happens to me,” I say, with maybe a pout.
“Well, no one does.”
“I know. I just really don’t like it,” I say, and he seems to sense I’m not whining. I’m actually admitting something hard.
He takes a step closer to me. “Because you’re afraid of not being perfect.”
It’s said gently, like a soft gust of wind through a window that flutters open the pages of a book, revealing a twist in the story you didn’t see coming. The twist is that he’s figured me out. The thing I usually try to hide behind doing too much, being everything, trying hard.
“Maybe,” I say softly, crossing my arms over my chest, like I’m hugging myself. “Probably.”
Tyler looks like he wants to reach for me, to wrap me in his arms, and I wouldn’t object. But instead he says, “It’s okay. You don’t have to be the super nanny. You don’t have to be super Sabrina. It’s okay to be you. And I really wanted to be there for you. To take care of you.”
My throat tightens so hard, so uncomfortably, I can feel tears building in the back of my eyes. I fight them off. “Well, thank you,” I say. Then I say one more hard thing. “I guess I’m not used to it.”
“I’m going to go out on a limb and say Chad never took care of you?” Tyler doesn’t sound bitter or angry at him—just matter of fact, like he knows that’s what Chad would’ve been like.
“He’s not really a caretaker.”
“And I’m guessing your parents weren’t either?”
A mirthless laugh falls from my lips. “You’d be right.”
“I’m glad it was me last night then,” he says, “because I’m not like that.”
I wince, but it’s not because what he said was painful. It’s because the past still aches. The way I grew up still hurts. Because the armor I had to wear doesn’t always shield you when you’re sick, when you’re vulnerable, when you can’t do everything. But it’s hard to linger in this conversation. “What about you? Are you worried about getting sick? Or are you an ox?”