Page 54 of You'll Love it Here
“That’s cool.” His eyes sweep over me in approval as I place the lamp on my entryway’s bench. I remember then that I’m wearing my grungy sweats, my greasy hair is in a horrifically messy bun, and I’ve got on the robe that lost its belt.
Usually, looking like a piece of shit would make me feel insecure, but Sami has seen enough of me to make it okay, which is kind of great. At this point, I can justbe.
“I have some soups and medicines and things. Can I help set you up with them?” He pulls off the backpack.
“This is truly lovely of you, but I don’t want you getting sick.”
“Well, I’ve got a bit of a cold myself.” To prove his point, he takes a big inhale through his nose, which makes a horribly stuffy sound. “Makes sense, I guess, since we’ve been hanging out lately.” His eyes draw to me. He’s right, our chats have been getting longer when we exchange Ernest. My morning coffees have been taking longer too. Yesterday, he told me all about his fancy restaurant days—how the walk-in cooler was designed for staff meltdowns as much as it was for keeping the food cool.
Now that he’s mentioned it, he does look a little paler than his usual shade. “Is it the chills and plugged-nose kind?” I venture.
He nods. “The very one.”
“All right, you’re in the club.” I hold the door open. “Come on.”
We make our way to my living room and Sami rests his backpack on the floor. “Something you don’t yet know about me is that I’m an expert sick-day curator. So if you’d allow me, I’d love to set up the space.”
I take in his serious expression and the concerningly stuffed shape of the backpack. “I... I don’t think I can deny you this.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Where are your mugs?”
“See that cupboard that won’t quite latch closed?” I point to my shitty chipped cabinet. “They’re all there.”
“Great. Just give me five minutes to prep the room. Feel free to cover your eyes if you want the full transformation-reveal effect.” Sami’s dimples tug at the corner of his grin.
“How about I stare at my phone?”
He smacks his hands together. “I can work with that.”
After a few minutes of scrolling while Sami paces from the kitchen and back—I hear the running of the kettle and clanging glassware—Sami finally calls, “Ready.”
I look up. There are four mugs on my basic Ikea coffee table filled with different colored liquids. Beside them are two glasses of water, a giant bottle of Canada Dry ginger ale, a pack of Fisherman’s Friend, a box of Kleenex, and bottles of both DayQuil and NyQuil—all of it laid out like I’m in a hotel.
“This is really something,” I praise him.
He smirks with pleasure. “Let me give you the lay of the land. The NyQuil is a best-before-June-2028 vintage. A remarkable year for the artificial flavors and—” He cuts off as he starts to cough. “I can’t make it funnier, I’m starting to feel like shit.”
I pick up the closest mug to me, and the warm salty smell of bouillon wafts toward me. The best thing in the world. “Seriously, this is amazing. Thanks for doing all this.”
“Like I was saying, I’m an expert. And I have access to the diner’s resources.” He points to the table. “One of your mugs has lemon tea and the other has Lipton Cup-a-Soup soup.” He sniffles before picking up one of the glasses of water to take a gulp.
“I feel more hydrated already,” I say, picking up my own glass.
He gestures to my TV. “I’ve also determined what you’re going to watch. I’m sorry but it’s the only way to kick this—so first you have Bob Barker episodes ofThe Price Is Right, followed by Maury Povich.”
“Oh my god!” I can’t hold back the delight in my voice even in my current state. “It’s an early 2000s sick day!” I grab a tissue and dab it under my runny nose. “I’ve never had one!”
Sami gives me a sad little grin. “Like I said, it’s the only way. But fair warning, the Maury show didn’t age well, or maybe it was never right, but you can’t feel bad about that, because you’re sick. It’s our right to stare at the TV for eight hours and feel nothing.”
I cock my head. “Wereyouworking today?”
“Dad’s handling things. Allegedly. I think I’ve bestowed too much power upon the guy.” His brow raises. “He’s living his best life wreaking havoc on the regulars, singing all weird and loud while pacing between tables. If anyone new comes in, they’ll be so freaked out. Good thing it’s always dead.” Sami chuckles at his own joke, but his eyes cast down.
“Nah, they’ll love him,” I say encouragingly.
“Hey, since we’re both playing hooky, and I’m a first-timer at this, wanna hang out?” With Sami around, it’s like a tiny boost of energy found its way to me, and now I can’t go back to being alone in my misery.
We end up on the couch, sipping on various liquids and throwing salty comments at the TV. The thing is, I love everything about it. I lean back and watch the inadequate assholes try to guess how much a kitchen set is in the ’90s. We’re both way off in a way that freaks us out about the cost of living and the state of the world. But like, in a fun way.
