Page 45 of My Best Friend's Dad

My condo is spacious and open. Now that I’m upright, I can see my dad hovering in the doorway.

“What’s Dad doing there?”

Mom sets the big box down on the floor and thrusts her hands on her green-scrub-clad hips. I hate that color. Probably because it screams hospital, and my mom’s scrubs always smelled just like that place. Strongly astringent.

“He has a big case he’s working on. He can’t afford sick time right now.”

Ahh. That probably explains why she suited up to come and see me too. One would think I’d caught a zombie flesh-wasting disease, not a freaking cold. I’ve had it for days. Am I even contagious at this point? I thought it was worse before you even knew you were sick.

Dad wriggles his fingers at me, and I sniffle and wave back, letting it go like I’ve always let it go. At least he came. He could have just let my mom come by herself.

“What’s in the box?” I ask.

“A 3D printer.”

“A what?” Of course I know what they are. I mean, vaguely, but why on earth did she bring me one?

And here I thought that when she called an hour ago to tell me they were on their way over to bring me something, it was chicken soup or an ice cream cake.

Mom nudges the box with her black, non-slip shoe. She’s probably going to get my dad to drop her off at the hospital, which explains the scrubs.

I guess.

“You lost your job, so you have nothing right now. That wedding planning nonsense was your whole source of income. At least you could do this while you’re looking for another job. It needs filament, which I’ve ordered to your house. It should be here tomorrow. They take a little bit of instruction, and it’s aslight learning curve, but I bought a model you can just unbox and basically start printing on. I’m sure they have instructional videos online.”

“Uhhhh…” I sniffle, grab another tissue, and blow my nose before I can continue. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Print things. For sale. It’s the perfect time of year to get your name into some of the craft shows that everyone holds leading up to Christmas. You can make all sorts of things. It’s really very interesting. You could sell them online.”

“Just open up my own shop,” I state. It’s not a question.

Mom bobs her head, only half listening. “Exactly.”

I don’t want to seem ungrateful. My parents bought this for me, and it probably wasn’t cheap. They would never buy something half-assed. If there’s anything my mom believes in, it’s quality. She even ordered all the filament stuff, or whatever it is, and sent it directly here, which probably wasn’t cheap either.

“While you look for another job,” she makes sure to stress. “You can do that as soon as you’re better. Use this time to work on your resume and cover letter.”

“Yeah, I was planning on doing exactly that. I just haven’t been up to it.”

“I’m glad it’s just a cold, honey. They never do keep a body down long.” She air kisses me and waves. “I have to run. I’m due on shift in an hour.”

“Yeah. Uh, thank you for stopping in. It was good to see you.” For all of five seconds.Thanks for the hug, for asking me if I’m doing okay, or for any sort of empathy or sympathy at all. Thanks for telling me that you love me, that you’re worried about me. Thanks for asking me how I’m truly doing and for caring.

“You could always go back to school,” my dad calls from the doorway, sounding hopeful.

It’s at times like this that I wonder why I even gave them a key.

“I don’t know. It’s been a shock. I haven’t thought much about it. I have my savings, and that will get me through a few weeks. I’ll find something, even if it takes longer to get a job I really want. You don’t have to worry.”

“Sounds good, baby. You’re a fighter.” He punches the air, then follows my mom out. The suction sounds of her stripping off her gloves drift inside just as the door closes.

I flop back onto the couch, rolled as tight as a burrito in my quilt.

I don’t want to SOS text Mika, but I feel like shit. Doubly so now. I really could have used a hug and some soup.

I can just see my mom telling me that chicken soup is an old wives’ tale—I’m not sure it actually is—and that she’s never in her life made anything homemade. Also, she’s far too busy to go out and pick it up. If I want it, I should just order it in. If I’m having trouble paying the bills, she and my dad will cover them until I can do it myself again.

To her credit, at least she didn’t sayI told you so.