Zane's non-IV hand now had teeth marks on it. Mine.
Mom ordered me to keep eyes on him at all times, so he got my worst attitude all day. After his last IV bag and a stack of prescriptions, he trailed me home without a peep.
"Zo, when's your date?"
I stared out the cab window and pretended not to hear.
"Can I come? I promise I won't say anything weird."
His fever was gone, but now he'd started coughing—endlessly. Two sentences in, the coughing started, and the moment I said no, he erupted into a fit that shook his whole curled-up body, like the second I refused he'd cough himself unconscious. The cab driver silently pulled a face mask out of the glove box and put it on.
My eye twitched. Through gritted teeth: "Ha. Zane, you could cough up a lung right now and I still wouldn't take you."
He flopped back against the seat and slowly got his breathing under control. I glanced over. The corners of his eyes were red, one tear clinging to his lashes, not quite falling. After a long moment, his Adam's apple bobbed.
"Oh. Okay, then."
I dropped Zane at home and reminded him to take his meds on schedule. A sulky "mm," and he flopped onto the couch, curled into a ball. And somehow... that was a little pitiful.
At the door, I turned around and came back, nudging his shoulder. "Hey. Zane. I'll be back in a couple hours. Want anything? I'll grab it on the way."
"Mm."
"Or just DoorDash something?"
"Mm."
Zane pulled his hood up over his head. All that showed was the hard line of his jaw, lips pressed flat. No idea who'd ruined his day.
Which is how I ended up distracted through my entire first date with Derek.
By the time I got home, the house was dark. I flicked on the lights. Zane hadn't moved a muscle, and the pill boxes on the table were untouched. I frowned and went over to shake him. "Why haven't you taken your meds?"
He raised an arm to block the light and answered, lazy. "Why are you back so late?"
I checked the time. Late? It was barely eight.
"Oh, we just grabbed dinner, that's all."
I opened the pill box and poured a glass of warm water. Zane sat up and leaned against the couch, dead flat: "What did you eat?"
I looked up, startled. Since when did he care about boring small talk like this?
"Just whatever. Take your meds, or it'll spike again tonight—and this time I'm not playing nurse."
Zane coughed twice and asked, hoarse: "You were gone three and a half hours. Didn't call once. Didn't even ask if I'd eaten."
I opened my mouth and came up with nothing. I studied him for a second. Was he... mad that I didn't fuss over him? Sick people's moods. Unreadable.
I decided to just go with it. "Okay, okay—I'm asking. Did you eat dinner?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"You weren't here."
I stared at him. That was not a reason. I'm gone all the time—does he just not eat then, either? He was still recovering, so I let it slide.
"Fine. What do you want? I'll DoorDash it."
Zane gave a little scoff. "Oh, so he gets to take you out, and I get DoorDash?"
I kept my face flat. "Zane. Enough. Meds. Now."
The second he saw me getting angry, he looked away again, and the two pills rolled around in his palm, nowhere near his mouth.
"You're so mean to me lately. Making me take pills on an empty stomach.
"I only see you a few days a year, Zo. I just wanted one dinner with you..."
Post-fever Zane had this low, rough voice, with a sliver of hurt buried in it, barely audible. It was doing things to me.
"Fine, fine, fine. Let's go get dinner."
Nine p.m. Zane was sipping soup in a cozy little bistro while I ate dessert across the table. He loaded a piece of fish onto my plate. "Zo, eat something."
"I already ate—fine, fine, I'm eating." Under the weight of that wounded look, I choked down a few more bites.
My phone buzzed mid-dinner. Derek, asking if I'd made it home safe. I looked down to type, told him I'd been home for ages, and was just about to add a rant about the sick little tyrant who made me take him out for dinner—
Zane lifted another bite of food and said, mildly: "No phones at the table."
I had no words.
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