FRIDAY EVENING

My sickness has more or less the same timeline as Andrew’s, and after two days of getting out of bed only to pee and groggily take a very necessary shower, I finally emerge from my death cave sometime around six o’clock on Friday night feeling human again.

There’s no sign of Andrew, but I don’t really expect there to be.

I don’t remember much about yesterday, but I know he stayed with me the whole day. Ordered me to drink fluids, have a couple of spoonfuls of soup.

I refused to move long enough for him to change my sheets, but he did come in throughout the day, opening the window for a few minutes at a time to get some much-needed fresh air into the bedroom.

Around three yesterday I was cranky as all heck, tired of being sick but also too tired to be anything else. He turned on the TV in my bedroom and, without asking, put on Enchanted.

I don’t know how he knew it was the only movie I could watch two days in a row without ever getting sick of it, but he knew. Plus I got to see the ending this time. I went to sleep the second the credits started rolling, and when I woke, the TV was off and Andrew was gone.

The loneliness and disappointment were almost . . . crippling.

So when he stopped by this morning wearing a suit, clearly on his way to work, it had been almost a relief. A reminder that the last thing my life needs is to start relying on a workaholic.

He regretfully told me he needed to check in at the office, at least for a couple of hours, after being gone all week, and I breezily told him I’d be fine.

I take a long-ass shower, and though I’m feeling almost back to almost normal, I don’t feel like blow-drying my hair. I towel-dry it and then pull it into a messy bun on top of my head. My skin looks atrocious, so I put on a facial mask and head into the kitchen, a little surprised and relieved to realize that I’m famished.

The fridge is stocked with plenty of the leftover soup I made for Andrew, and I heat some in the microwave as I scroll through the phone Andrew plugged in for me. I’ve got about a million text messages, and it occurs to me that I missed a lot and yet . . . nothing at all.

Plenty of people have been checking in. Marley wants to know if I’m dead, my mom tells me she wants to chat and to call her back, my dad unsubtly tells me about a job available at the company that I’d be a great fit for, and everyone wants to know if I’m really dating Andrew or if it’s just tabloid nonsense.

Most curious of all seems to be Hailey. Of all my friends, she’s possibly the nicest, and if I’m reading the tone of these messages right, she seems really hopeful that the Andrew rumors aren’t true. Her last message is especially telling: Would you please call me when you get this? It’s driving me crazy that I may have been flirting with YOUR guy at the party last week!

What should I say to her? Well, yes, you were flirting, but he’s not my guy. Sure, Andrew returned the favor and took care of me when I was sick, but I’d hardly call it romantic. Because kissing me was a mistake.

I decide to rip the Band-Aid off and have the hard conversation with my friend. I pull my soup out of the microwave and stir it halfheartedly to cool it down while I wait for Hailey to pick up, which she does.

“Georgie! Oh my gosh, you’re alive!”

“Barely,” I say, scooping up some soup and blowing. “Sorry for the radio silence, I came down with some nasty bug.”

“Oh, ick. Are you feeling better?”

“Much, thanks.”

“So you’re coming out tonight?!”

“Not that much better. Count me out until next week.”

“Ugh, that sucks. We miss you. Did you hear about Brody and his baby mama?”

“Yup.”

“Ugh, such a pig. You’re lucky you hooked up with one of the nice ones.”

There it is.

I take a slurpy sip of my soup. “Hon, you of all people know not to believe what you read in the tabloids.”

There’s a pause. A hopeful pause, I’m guessing. “Really? But you and Andrew were kissing.”

“That was . . .” I wave my spoon, trying to think of the right word, and failing. “I’d had too much to drink, and he was annoying me. I was trying to prove a point, he was trying to prove a point—”

“What point, how many molars you have?” she asks teasingly.

“It was more of a battle of wills. And if anyone asks, I totally won. But the point is, we’re not together.”

Another pause. “Okay. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved. I thought maybe you guys were in, like, a secret relationship, and I’d been hitting on him that night and you were mad.”

“Not mad,” I say, taking another spoonful of soup and wishing that this conversation could be over already.

“And you don’t like him?”

I feel a little twinge. If it were Marley, I might tell her the truth: that I like him too much. But though I consider Hailey a good friend, we’re not quite on the spill-your-darkest-secrets level, so instead I deflect.

“Look. You gave him your phone number, right? Has he ever used it? Texted, called, whatever?”

“Well . . . yeah, he texted, but—”

My heart sinks hard. Like, boulder-in-the-ocean hard. “See?” I say brightly, wincing at how fake I sound. “There you go. He’s never texted me. Never called me.”

She doesn’t pick up on the false brightness of my voice the way Marley would—doesn’t seem to realize that my soul is dying a little.

“Really?” Hailey sounds genuinely surprised. “There’s really nothing there? So if I ask him to be my date at that literacy fundraiser next week . . .?”

“Go for it,” I say, making a mental note to change my RSVP on that particular fundraiser to hell no.

“Okay, well . . . thanks, I guess. I mean, it’s a little weird to ask out the guy who was just making out with my friend, but—”

“Hailey,” I interrupt, “I’ve got another call coming in. But seriously, if you like Andrew, I think you guys would be good together.”

The crappy thing is, it’s sort of true. Of the people in my friend group, Hailey’s the most subdued. She parties with the rest of us, but she’s more eager than the rest of us to give up those parties for a life of white wine, early nights, and parent-teacher conferences at the ritziest prep school. She’s friendly, but also a tiny bit shy compared to the rest of us. Pretty, but classy. Funny, but not terribly snarky.

There’s nothing ridiculous about her.

In other words, she’s the dream woman for Andrew Mulroney, Esquire.

“Okay, talk soon!” Hailey says.

I chirp goodbye, and then because I really do have another call coming in . . .

“Hi, Mom.”

“There you are,” my mother says on the other end of the phone, her tone clearly exasperated. “You’ve been avoiding my calls for two days.”

“I’ve been avoiding everyone’s calls. I’ve had the flu.”

“Oh, dear,” she says, making a tsking sound. “You should have called me.”

Why, so you could tell me which of your latest bronzers would be the most flattering on sallow skin, and remind me of the game-changing powers of your under-eye concealer?

It’s an unfair thought, though. I love that my mom’s got her own thing going on. I just sometimes wish she knew when to turn off the CEO and when to turn on the mom.

“I’m better now,” I say, pushing aside the soup. It’s all I’ve had for two days and I’m sick of it.

“Good! You want to meet me for dinner?”

I wrinkle my nose. Two dinner invitations from her in as many weeks. It’s not unwelcome, just . . . odd.

“I think I need one more day of sweatpants and reruns,” I say, “But tomorrow sounds great. What kind of food are you and Dad thinking?”

“Oh. I was thinking dinner, just us girls.”

Uh-oh.

Second time in a row, no Dad. I ignore the warning bells.

“Why, what’s Dad up to?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’d love the time to himself to watch the game or whatever.”

Uh-huh. Or whatever is right. I have to bite my tongue to keep from asking which game. I guarantee she has no idea how bummed Dad is that the Yankees got knocked out of the playoffs last week or that he’s vowed to boycott all sports until spring training.

“Are you guys okay?” I ask. “You’ve seemed sort of distant lately.”

There’s a delay in her response, and when it does come, it’s vaguely impatient. “We’re fine, Georgie. If you don’t want to have dinner with your mother, you can just say so.”

Ah, the old guilt trip deflection. Classic.

“I’d love to have dinner, Mom. Let me just see how I’m feeling tomorrow after a good night’s sleep, ’kay?”

“All right,” she says, her voice still a bit stiff. “I hope you start to feel better.”

“Thanks.”

When we hang up, I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and sink onto the bar stool, resting my head in my hands.

I don’t have a headache anymore, but I still feel like I’m trying to operate through a fog. I just don’t know if the fog’s a lingering effect of the sickness or the fact that my personal life’s a super-fat mess.

On top of it all, I feel weak. Hungry for real food, not soup. But I know without looking that the fridge is mostly empty. I heave a sigh and am just reaching for my phone to order something for delivery when I hear a quiet knock at the door.

I start to stand, but before I can move, it opens, and I give a little screech of terror until I see the familiar form of a suit-wearing Andrew.

“Gawd,” I say, slumping back down and putting a hand over my chest. “You scared me. How do you still have a key?”

He stands in the doorway, looking unsure. “I thought you’d still be asleep, I didn’t want you to have to get out of bed to answer the knock. I’ll return it immediately.”

“Return it later,” I say, gesturing him in. “I smell cheese.”

“Thought you might be wanting some real food,” he says, coming into the kitchen and letting my front door shut behind him. “Brought some lasagna for later.”

I’m already diving for the paper bag.

“Or for now,” he amends, watching as I rip it open.

I pull out the foil container and tear off the lid, but I pause when I see him locate both my napkins and silverware in the right drawer on the first try.

“You know your way around my kitchen,” I say.

“Turnabout’s fair play,” he says, handing me a fork and a napkin. “You wasted no time locating everything from my wineglasses to my laundry detergent.”

“Yeah, well, laundry detergent was a real stumper, what with it being on top of the washing machine and all.”

“You’re feeling better, I see,” he says as I dig a fork into the crusty cheese topping of the lasagna. “I may need to reheat that.”

“Nah, is good,” I say around a bite. “Want some?” I push the container toward him, knowing there’s zero chance that Andrew Mulroney will lower himself enough to eat directly out of a disposable foil container of takeout.

But he shocks the hell out of me by digging a fork into the other side and taking a bite.

He sets the fork down as he chews, then goes over to my cute gold bar cart that has a small wine rack built in. He pulls out a bottle and examines the label. “You mind?”

“Take your pick,” I say, still shoveling in the lasagna, pausing only long enough to rip open a bag of garlic bread and take a too-big bite of that as well. “Wine opener’s in the second drawer, glasses to the left of the fridge,” I say.

“You want a glass, or are you sticking to nonalcoholic fluids?” he says.

“The latter,” I say, taking a gulp of water. “You have extra wine, and I’ll live vicariously.”

“Your color’s better,” he says, taking a sip of the wine, then returning to the counter and picking up his fork.

“Yes, I’m sure I look beautiful,” I say, patting my wet bun and gesturing at the oversized T-shirt that an old boyfriend left behind. I barely remember the guy, but the shirt’s the comfiest thing I own.

I take another bite of lasagna and, as I wipe at a string of cheese on my chin, it occurs to me how dang comfortable I am sitting across from Andrew Mulroney, looking my absolute worst while shoving cheese and carbs into my mouth at an alarming rate.

“How was work?” I ask, changing my mind about the wine and reaching for his glass. I can’t quite reach it, and he nudges it nearer.

“Fine. Mostly a lot of catch-up, but Shelley and my partners did a good job of keeping things running while I was out.”

“That’s good.” I take another bite of garlic bread, but my chewing slows when I see him studying me.

“What?” I wipe my mouth with my hand.

“I’m sorry I left today,” he says quietly.

His apology catches me off guard, and I try to brush it away with a carefree smile. “No need to apologize. I wasn’t expecting you to stay.” Andrew blinks, his expression so unexpectedly hurt that I reach out a hand. “Wait, no. I didn’t mean it like that.”

He reaches again for his fork. “Sure.”

“I just meant I took care of you for one day, you took care of me yesterday. We’re even.”

“Is that what we’re doing here? Just tit for tat?”

“No, I’m just saying . . . I get it. You had to work today. And let’s not forget you spooned me when I wanted to die. I’d say you went above and beyond the call of duty for a frenemy. Actually, yeah. Let’s forget that.”

He takes a sip of wine watching me. “Frenemy.”

“Fitting, right?” I say, offering him a piece of cheesy garlic bread, because it’s the least sexy food on the planet and I’m hoping it’ll defuse some of this tension.

He doesn’t accept it, and I scramble for something to keep the easy mood between us. For some reason, the thought of us retreating to that place of being acrimonious strangers fills me with dread.

I like us being friendly, I like him talking to me, I like . . . him.

Crap.

“So, I talked to Hailey this afternoon,” I blurt out.

Andrew blinks. “So?”

The lasagna churns a little in my stomach when I realize that he doesn’t ask me to clarify who Hailey is.

I drop the garlic bread and fix a smile on my face. “She was calling to see if that whole kiss disaster was for real.”

He slowly sets his wineglass back down. “And what did you tell her?”

“The truth.” I lift my shoulders and let them drop. “That it was nothing. Just a misplaced attempt to best each other.”

Andrew crosses his arms. “Why would she care?”

I roll my eyes. “For someone who was a boy genius, you can kind of be a dolt sometimes. She likes you.”

Andrew leans forward, elbows on the counter, studying me. “And how do you feel about that?”

I swallow. It’s the most direct he’s ever been, the first opening he’s ever given me to take the first step. To say that maybe we could be more than frenemies.

I open my mouth to tell him that I feel wretched about the thought of him with Hailey. That the thought of them holding hands and kissing and him taking care of her when she’s sick makes me want to barf up all the delicious lasagna.

But then I picture how he’d react if I said that. I picture that unsmiling, sometimes unfriendly face not responding even the tiniest bit to my announcement . . . so I take the safe route.

“I think she’d be the perfect girl for you,” I say quietly.

The worst thing is, some part of me means it, even as the other part wants to tell him that he needs someone messy and ridiculous to help him not take everything so seriously.

“You do?” he says.

I smile and nod. “Yup. She’s going to ask you to go to a fundraiser next week, and for the love of God, don’t be a stiff about it.”

Andrew stands up straight, starts to pick up his wineglass, then instead shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s always hard to read, but he’s an especially blank slate right now.

“Or you could ask her out sooner,” I say, my voice sounding manic and crazy. “I bet she’s free tomorrow.”

What are you doing, Georgie?

I ignore my subconscious, charging ahead in a futile hope that maybe the sooner I see him with someone else, the sooner I’ll banish the futile hope that he might want to be with me.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I continue. “She told me you’ve already texted her, so it won’t be that hard to keep doing it.”

I hold my breath just a little, wanting him to deny it. To tell me that he hasn’t been texting Hailey while I’ve never gotten a single text or call from him.

No, you moron. No text, just flowers, and soup, and a cuddle, and lasagna, and . . .

“All right,” he says, interrupting my thoughts before my still-slow brain can put all the pieces together.

“All right what?”

He shrugs. “I’ll ask her out.”

My face feels like it cracks when I smile. Not unlike what it feels like my heart is doing.

“Awesome,” I say, shoveling another bite of lasagna into my mouth, even though I’m borderline queasy. “Want any help figuring out what to say?”

“Believe it or not, I’ve asked a woman on a date before.”

I lift my eyebrows in challenge, and his gaze goes angry. He pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Before I can regret my impulse to call his bluff, his fingers move quickly across the screen before holding it up. “There. I asked out your friend. Happy?”

No. So not happy. Not even close.

I lean forward and whisper, “Can I be your best woman at the wedding?”

He shakes his head in disgust and takes a big sip of his wine, nearly draining the glass before leaning down and picking up his briefcase. “You need anything else? I’m still behind on work—I should get back to my place and get started.”

“Wow, working on a Friday night,” I say. “You sure know how to live it up. At least take the wine with you.”

It’s the sort of dialogue that’s practically second nature to us, but the words feel false and hollow once they’re out there.

“I’m sorry I opened it,” he says. “I thought—”

Andrew clears his throat, and I jump on his hesitation. “You thought what?”

“Nothing. Never mind. I’ll return the key downstairs,” he says, heading toward the door. “No more unexpected visits.”

I’ve got no quippy comebacks for that, so I simply nod and smile. Or at least I think I smile. Mostly I feel like a lump of nothingness.

I know. You’re frustrated with me right now. I’m frustrated with me too, because I’m usually honest to a fault, and here I am not telling this guy that I . . . like him. Really like him.

I’ve never had a problem telling a guy how I felt.

But I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before. Ever.