As the evening wears on and the light streaming through his windows fades, I bring him ice chips and fresh clothes, and I coax him to drink small amounts of water and chicken broth at a time. He watches hockey with his eyes closed, and I sit on the far end of the couch from him, doing my best to narrate all the small things that the sports announcer doesn’t. Together, we listen to his laundry tumble in the dryer, since he was down to his last clean T-shirt and I had a feeling he might soon need another.

“Hailey,” he quietly says sometime after 8 p.m., and I look over at him laid back in the reclined end of the sofa. In the dim light of a single corner lamp, he’s buried under two blankets and surrounded by a fortress of throw pillows. His face is turned toward me, his cheek against the back of the couch and his brown eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“If you’re going to tell me to leave again—” I start, expecting him to tell me for the hundredth time that I don’t have to stay with him. But he cuts me off.

“I’m not.” He pauses to let the argument seep out of me. “I’m not. I want you to stay.”

“Oh,” my tiny voice apologizes. “Then . . . what is it?”

Mike’s weighted gaze lingers on mine, and then it shutters closed. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Thick lashes lift to reveal those big browns again, and the air in the room thickens as the sun sinks below the windowsill. “Why’d you stop playing Deadzone?” he asks in a quiet voice. It molds a lump in my throat, and I contemplate my answer.

“Homework,” I decide after a too-long pause. “I’ve had a lot of homework.”

“Is that why you haven’t responded to any of my texts?”

Unable to find my voice, I nod.

Mike studies me from two cushions away, his gaze threatening to pull the truth from where it’s buried in the pit of my chest. “Do you know how I can tell you’re lying?”

That lump in my throat swells and swells, and I just sit there, staring.

“Your eyes get a little wider, and your lips get a little tighter. Like you’re biting the inside of your bottom lip.”

My teeth immediately release the inside of my bottom lip, and Mike eventually turns away from me. He watches the ceiling like it’s going to crumble down on him. “I feel like a mess.”

Thankful for the change of subject, I say, “I don’t think it’s time for more cold medicine.”

“Cold medicine won’t help,” he replies with a heavy sigh, and then he turns toward me again. “Can I lie down?”

“Do you want me to move?” I ask, planting my feet on the floor as Mike begins to shift out of his blankets.

“No.” He tosses a throw pillow onto my lap, repositioning on the couch until his heavy head pins it there. The protesting springs beneath the cushions drown out the sound of my heart thudding in my ears, and Mike pulls a blanket up to his neck while he continues getting comfortable. With him facing the TV, I sit there with one hand braced on the armrest and the other splayed against the back cushion beside me.

Every muscle in my body has turned to stone while my jackhammer heart threatens to crack me into pieces from within. Even my lungs have turned to granite, threatening to suffocate me while I pretend to watch TV.

“Is this okay?”

“Huh?” I squeak, and Mike turns his head on the pillow to gaze up at me, which is almost certainly how I’m going to die. Those eyes. My heart.

“Is this alright?”

“Yeah,” I manage, and Mike’s eyes linger on my lips before he turns back toward the TV.

I let out a deep breath slowly, slowly.

“Tell me your favorite pizza topping.”

“What?” At the sound of my own squeaky voice, I resist the urge to slap myself. Stop squeaking! There is no reason to squeak!

“You don’t eat meat,” Mike explains. “So what do you like on your pizza?”

I still don’t know what the hell to do with my right hand. Do I put it on his shoulder? His waist? “Um, I like black olives,” I say, cupping my hand on my head like a damn idiot.

When Mike turns to question me, I pretend to be scratching my scalp. “Olives?”

“And banana peppers.” Mike’s brow furrows into a deep V, and I continue scratching my head until I’m pretty sure he’s going to think I have lice.

“Black olives and banana peppers?”

With no other choice, I rest my hand on his shoulder. “It’s good.”

“We probably shouldn’t talk about this,” he says, facing the TV again.

“Why?” My hand is light as a feather.

“I’ll throw up again.” Mike groans, and I can’t help laughing.

“You shouldn’t knock it until you try it.”

“Hm,” he hums. “Tell me something else.”

“Like what?”

“Are you a vegetarian because you don’t believe in killing animals?”

I stretch the kinks out of my fingers before letting them rest against the blanket covering his arm again. “No, I believe in the humane killing of animals. On my parents’ farm, all of the animals are allowed to roam free and live long lives. I think that’s okay.”

“Why then?”

I can’t help the quiet chuckle that shakes me, and when Mike turns to question it, I say, “Promise you won’t tell Danica.”

He shifts so that he’s lying on his back, and his response comes quick and easy. “I promise.”