Page 91 of The Christmas Dash

“You did. She’s the one who told me you were down for the count. And she’s fine by the way. She was happy to cover you today, and the bookstore was bustling with holiday shoppers. Everything’s fine. It’s all handled. Relax.”

“But the Dasher Valley 8. If I’m not out there, proving myself, then—”

I reach my hand over and press it to her lips, à la Tom Hanks to Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail. I should have brought daisies, but oh well.

“You sit. Let me help you. I made you soup.”

I stand from the couch and head to the kitchen before she can try to make another excuse about how she should be working.

“You know,” I call over my shoulder, “I think this sickness is good for you.”

“Gee. Thanks.” Her tone is wry.

“It’s forcing you to take a breath,” I call as I ladle soup into one of her ceramic bowls.

“I breathe just fine.”

“False. You spend your life panting.”

“I’m going to try not to be offended by that.”

I chuckle, stacking some more soda crackers on a tray with the bowl. I fill her go-to oversized water bottle with ice and water. I don’t know how she lugs this thing around with her all day, every day. It’s got to weigh at least twenty pounds.

I manage to get everything balanced on the tray and carry it back into the living room. I sit down on the couch next to her again, settling the tray on my lap.

“What do you want first?”

“Is that homemade soup?”

“Mama Elena’s specialty. Chicken and wild rice.”

She looks at once impressed and hesitant. “This is too much.”

“No, it’s not. Here.” I lift the spoon and hold it out to her. “Eat.”

She takes it and swallows a bite. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she leans her head back against the couch cushion. “It’s really good.”

“Good.”

She opens her eyes and reaches for the whole bowl. I gladly hand it over, watching as she inhales bite after bite. I feel inordinately proud that I did something like this to help her. She’s focused on eating, and I don’t talk, but the silence isn’t weird. It’s comfortable. Like we’re meant to be here. Like I’m meant to be here, watching out for her. Taking care of her.

She tips the bowl back and drains the last of the broth.

“Want some more?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “No. It’s delicious. But I have to try to get some work done. I need to go check on the bookstore, and it’s Monday night. Right?” she questions, still groggy apparently.

When I huff out a laugh, she answers for herself. “Right. Which means they’re having the Holiday Train Display open house at the library. I’ve got to show my face and—”

“And nothing.” I cut her off. “You’re sick, Beth. You can’t power through this. You need to rest so you can get better.”

She pouts. “Since when do you get off telling me what to do?”

“Since today. Friends don’t let friends run themselves into the ground.”

“Friends.” She says the word like she’s trying it out and getting a sense for whether or not she likes the taste of it.

“Sure. Friends,” I repeat. “That’s what we are. Until you work things out in your head between you and Cal. Calvin.” His full name still tastes bitter, but I say it anyway. “And until you work things out in your head about me. But I’m not going anywhere. I’m here. As your friend. Whatever you need.”