All Of Me

Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 11

Sick Day.

Start from the beginning

“Can I go see him?” I ask, already standing. Tad nods, filling his own mug, and I leave him with Mom. Following the creak of a bed, I find Gray looking sorry for himself in his bedroom. He looks bad, a greenish tinge to his pale cheeks, and there’s a bucket by his bed, a towel on the floor.

“Are you dying?”

“I think so,” he says. “Can you die of food poisoning?”

“Yes.” I take out my phone and google the statistics. “Nearly half a million people die of food poisoning every year. What’d you eat? We all had your dad’s beef last night.”

“I got snacky,” he says, groaning when he rolls over. “I made a chicken sandwich later. I guess the chicken was bad.” He drops onto his back and drapes his arm over his forehead, breathing heavily.

“I can stay,” I say. “I can give you a hand?”

“No. You’ve got a date today. You’re not cancelling because of me.” He lies still for a moment. His hand moves to his mouth. He takes a deep breath through his nose before he tips out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom. I can’t bear the sound of him throwing up. There’s nothing I can do to help him.

A few minutes pass. He comes out looking a lot worse, his eyes red and his skin pallid, and he drags himself back to bed with hardly an ounce of energy.

“I hate throwing up,” he says, collapsing onto his crumpled comforter. “You should go.”

I don’t want to. I hover in the doorway. Gray stares at me.

“You don’t have to go to class if you don’t want to,” he says, “but you should go and see Liam and have a great day. I’m not going to let you throw away the day just because I’m sick.” He groans again, letting out a heavy sigh, and buries his face in his pillow. His words are muffled when he says, “Go, Storie.”

“Are you going to be ok?”

“Nope. I just gotta flush it out of my system.”

“Let me at least get you some water.”

“Ok,” he says, the word an effort to push out. “Then you need to go. Have fun without me.”

• • •

It’s weird driving alone. I’m not sure I’ve ever driven anywhere alone: I’m more of a taxi. I never have anywhere to be except college and I share that with Gray. His absence is painfully obvious as I sail down the I-90. I miss his narration. I even miss the sound of a book in his hands, the papery whoosh as he turns the page every thirty seconds.

When I get to South Lakes, I don’t feel right. Nothing physical, just a niggle at the back of my mind that it’s not right being here without him. It is, of course. It’s normal, whatever normal’s supposed to be. I’m supposed to be able to go to class without him; I’m supposed to be able to drive for a couple hours without being caught in a panic that clutches my chest.

It’ll be ok. I tell myself that over and over and over. It’ll be fine. I feel sorry for Gray too, and I hate myself for feeling bad that he’s not here when I should be feeling bad that he’s so ill. I do feel bad about that: I feel awful for him and I wish I could help but he’ll only be happy if I just go about my day as normal.

Class first. I can do that. I can sit in one of those awkward chair-table combos and I can make notes on literary theory for ninety minutes. Then I can do it again for Shakespearean literature. Then I can swallow my nerves for a date with Liam.

I’m not sure if the feeling in my gut is even nervousness. Anticipation, maybe. Sending the text terrified me, but I want to go. I want to see him. I don’t know where this is going, but I’m here for the ride.

STORY CONTINUES BELOW

The fact that I don’t feel too horrendously sick with nerves gives me a boost of confidence right when I need it, and I walk into class with my head held high. The professor even gives me a smile and a nod of acknowledgment, and I take a seat on the end of the front row. That way I don’t have to climb across anyone, nor do I knock a laptop off a table when I try and navigate the awkward seat.

Before the professor starts a dry class, I send Gray a text. I’m not sure he’s fixed his phone yet so I don’t expect a reply, but I know he can at least read a message.

hope you’re ok! thinking of you. stay hydrated and rest. you’re not missing anything.

I guess he figured out what was wrong because his reply beeps in almost instantly, and I silence my phone as quickly as I can as though that will take back the sound.

I may not be missing anything but considering you’re texting me in lit theory, you might be

I roll my eyes and try to bite down my smile as I type out a reply before the professor can glare at me for being on my phone. I wouldn’t be the only one, but I don’t want to insult him more by purposely sitting in the front row and then texting throughout class. Before I can get my response out, though, another text from him pops up.

thanks though storie <3 ngl I drank the water you gave me and threw it up. then again. and again. only 70% dead rn, down from 90! found some anti nausea meds. making me sleepy. gonna nap now. I’ll let you know if I wake up

After reading the message, I glance up at the exact moment that the prof looks over at me. Our eyes meet. His drop to my phone in my hand. Red-faced, I slip it back into my pocket and pull up today’s slides. When he looks away, I fire off a series of emojis to Gray, and I resign myself to a boring few hours.

• • •

My second class of the day finishes late at twelve fifty-five, giving me just enough time to get to Starbucks and cutting out extra the minutes I have to worry. There’s no time to get nervous when I only have a few minutes to get to Starbucks, though I don’t try to rush across campus. I’d rather be late than arrive sweating.

No new messages from Gray. I guess his meds knocked him out. I send him a quick one to let him know I’m on my way to see Liam and I make sure my phone’s on silent, tucked away in my bag. I can do without it for a couple of hours, even if that means being cut off from Gray while I’m on a date.

I almost walk straight into Liam when we arrive at the same time and he disarms me with a boyish smile. He has a kind of boyish face, round cheeks and full lips, but his body is all man. Today he’s wearing surprisingly snug jean shorts and a t-shirt tight enough to show me an outline of his abs, and I scold myself for being so shallow when any figure of mine is buried far below the surface.

“Hey.” I get the first word. Liam opens the door.

“Hey, Storie,” he says. He runs a hand over his hair, half of it pulled into a ponytail. The rest hangs to his shoulders, a little scruffy. “I was wondering when you were gonna text me. Thought I was gonna have to come to the bookstore to see you again.”

“I figured you’d earned my number,” I say, still basking in that moment of confidence from this morning. “As long as you don’t abuse it.”

He holds up his hands, his face sincere when he says, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

We join the line, enough tables available that I don’t need to save one, and I give in when Liam refuses to let me pay. I don’t want to fee like I owe him anything but there’s only so much I can protest. He’s unfazed when the total is over twenty dollars, and I’m instantly more endeared to him when I see him throw his eight dollars of change in the tip jar.