HEAL YOU | JENLISA

TWENTY-SEVEN

JENNIE

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I WAKE UP FEELING ACHY AND DISORIENTED, MUCH LIKE I’VE been sick and my fever just broke. My mind is slow to catch up, but I recognize my surroundings. I’m safe, in my bed, in my apartment, and that’s such a luxury.

My head throbs dully when I sit up, and looking down, I see I’m wearing street clothes—a sweater dress and leggings. I get my phone from the nightstand to check the time and am confused to see it’s past five P.M. Didn’t I leave my parents’ house later than this? How did time go backward? I have a zillion unread messages on my phone, but when I scroll through them I start to feel nauseated so I quit.

I fumble my way out of bed, and because I don’t plan on going anywhere anytime soon, I change out of my street clothes and into my pajamas. I pull on my ugly fuzzy bathrobe, too, glorying in the softness, and plod out of my bedroom. The light is on in my living room, so I head there to investigate, instead of going to the bathroom like I planned.

And Lisa is sitting on my couch, frowning over her laptop screen as her fingers fly over the keypad, efficiently typing away. The sight is unexpected but entirely welcome. I love how comfortable she seems in my space, barefoot and wearing a faded T-shirt and loose sweatpants.

She glances my way, and a wide smile brightens her face and makes her beautiful. “You’re up.”

“Hey.” I scratch behind my ear and ask, “What day is it?”

Laughter spills from her. “It’s Saturday. You slept for”—she checks the time on her phone—“seventeen hours straight.”

“That explains why I feel like roadkill,” I say, trying to keep my tone light even though I feel a sense of loss. This is my vacation. And I just slept half of it away.

Lisa sets her computer aside and comes to my side, running her hands up and down my arms. “Want anything? Hungry?”

“I might be hungry. I really need to brush my teeth, though. Be right back.” I cover my mouth self-consciously and hurry to the bathroom, where I go through the long process of brushing, seven seconds for each tooth, seven seconds for each corresponding part of my gumline to stimulate blood flow so I don’t lose all my teeth before I’m fifty, meticulous flossing, mouthwash with fluoride. It takes forever, but this is how I live with the periodontal disease brought on by all my tooth tapping.

When I’m done, I return to the living room. Lisa isn’t there, but I hear her puttering around in the kitchen. Peeking around the corner, I find her poaching eggs at the stove. On the counter next to her, there are two packages of ramen noodles and two empty soup bowls.

“You’re making me ramen?” I ask.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “It’s the only thing you have. I thought about ordering delivery, but I figured you’d be starving and this is fast. Want something else?”

I swallow past the ache in my throat. “No, this is perfect.”

She smiles and turns back to her work, scooping the eggs into the bowls, emptying the packets of soup powder into the pot of boiling water, and then putting the noodles in to cook.

Not long after, we’re sitting across from each other at my tiny table, our knees pressed together, my feet on top of her because I’m cold and she’s warm. Steam curls up from the noodles, and the poached egg looks yummy. The white part is firm, but I can tell the yolk will be runny. I lower my chopsticks to the bowl but hesitate before touching anything. I don’t want to ruin it just yet.