1 7 - C H A N C E

I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache, a swollen throat, nausea, and a fever. But when I notice Noah splayed out on the couch next to me, the rush of happiness I feel is enough to numb the pain. At least, it's enough until I stand up and almost faint from the dizziness.

"Chance?" Noah murmurs sleepily from the couch. "Are you okay?"

I don't respond, more focused on not blacking out than I am about telling him I'm not feeling very well when he can almost definitely see that for himself. As my vision slowly clears, I hear his footsteps approaching and the feel his arm wrapping around my shoulder, holding me upright.

"You okay?" he repeats. I shake my head, and he puts one of his hands to my forehead. "You're feverish."

"Yippee," I mutter. "I'll make myself breakfast and go to back to bed then, I guess. You should go to school."

"I don't have school today," he says. "It's fine."

My brow furrows. "What do you mean you don't have school today?"

"My classmates and teachers have school. I don't."

I want to roll my eyes in protest but find it to be too much effort. "Whatever. Is toast okay for breakfast? I don't feel well enough to make anything else."

"What are you talking about?" Noah asks, a disapproving expression on his face. "You're not making anything. Go lie down. I'll bring you something."

"I'm going to the bathroom first, but fine."

"What do you want on your toast?" he calls from the kitchen as I stumble over to the bathroom, the ground swaying beneath my feet.

"Just butter," I call back, but I have to repeat myself because my voice cracks the first time and no sound comes out.

"Okay."

When I make my way back to the living room after using the bathroom, I find Noah sitting on the couch, munching on a slice of toast. On the coffee table is a plate with two slices for me. "Try to eat as much of that as you can," he tells me through a mouthful of his own food. "Also, where's your medicine? I'll go get some for you."

"Upstairs in the hall closet," I reply as I sit down and reach for one of the toasts. My hands shake as I pick it up, and I almost drop it on the floor. He nods.

"I'll be right back."

As I watch him walk up the stairs, I take a bite out of the corner of the bread, but as soon as I swallow, I immediately feel more nauseous, so I put it back on the plate and lie down.

Noah gives me a sympathetic look as he reenters the room. "Couldn't eat?" he asks.

"Nope. I'd rather eat nothing and throw up nothing than force myself to eat and throw it all up later."

"Yeah, that's understandable. Can you take this though?" He hands me a pill and a glass of water. "It should make you feel better and make you tired so you can fall back asleep."

"I guess so," I grumble.

"Hey, grumpy. What's wrong?"

"I hate being sick. This is your fault."

"So, you're the grumpy-when-sick type?" He smirks, ignoring my accusation. Which, if I think about it, is a sure sign that he's feeling much better about himself in general—he's not dwelling on it. At least, I don't think he is.

"Shut up," I mumble, scowling. I lie back down, pulling the blanket over my shoulders and knocking the pillow off the couch in the process. I'm too tired to get back up and reach for it, so I settle for glaring at it. Noah hands it back to me, barely trying to hide his laughter.

"You're really amusing," he says. "I like it. I like you." He buries his face in his hands, mumbling, "Oh my gosh, it feels so weird to say that out loud."

I smile, feeling my bad mood lift a little as he talks. "I like you too," I tell him sleepily, my voice raspy from all the gunk in my throat. "Now shut up and let me sleep."

"Okay," he says, leaning his head back so that his head rests right next to mine on the couch. He doesn't say anything and just stares at my face. I try to close my eyes and ignore him, but I can still feel his gaze on me. It makes me start to squirm.

"Can you stop staring at me?" I croak, opening one eye. "It's distracting."

"Sorry," he whispers. "I'll stop."

I hum, closing my eyes again and feeling myself drifting off to sleep. I vaguely notice him shift positions from his place on the floor. I think I hear him talking with my parents, but I can't be sure because I'm not fully conscious. I'm in that weird state between consciousness and sleep where my mind is so hazy and muddled that I can't tell what's going on, and I'm too tired to open my eyes and find out.

I must of have fallen asleep, though, because when I next open my eyes, instead of Noah sitting next to me, there's an empty space. My mom is reading a book on the other couch, and she turns to me when I shift to relieve my aching arm.

"Did you sleep well?" she asks, closing her book.

I let out a muffled groan. "Yeah, but not long enough."

She gives me a funny look. "You've been asleep for five hours."

"Oh. Doesn't feel like it. Where's Noah?"

"At school. We made him go. He said he'd come back after school though, so you'll see him soon."

"How'd you manage to convince him to go to school? Even I had a hard time with that. Also, what time is it?"

She looks at her watch. "One thirty. And we told him we'd kick him out and wouldn't let him come back to see you if he didn't go."

"Smart." I hold my hand to my throat, wincing at the scratchiness. It almost feels like I have shards of glass embedded in my throat that move every time I swallow. Not pleasant at all. "I'm going to go get water. I'll be back."

She watches me with concern as I stand up and make my way into the kitchen but relaxes once she sees I'm steady on my feet. I grab my water bottle and fill it with ice water, making sure to screw the cap on tightly before I walk back.

"Do I still need to finish my homework by tonight?" I ask her, settling back down onto the couch. Based on the way I feel, I don't think I'll be getting up for a while, so I move around for a minute or two and really try to get comfortable. It's hard, with my pounding head and aching body, but I manage it somehow.

"Nope," she says. "You're sick. Of course not."

"Okay." I reach for my laptop anyway, opening it and bringing up my half-finished essay. "I'll just work a little bit."

"Sure, but make sure you rest."

I hum in acknowledgement, staring at the prompt: To what extent is love a universal phenomenon rather than a culture-dependent occurrence? It's been one of the most difficult prompts to answer so far in the unit, but that makes it all the more interesting. Writing essays can be really fun when I like what I'm writing about. Another advantage of homeschooling, I guess.

I get through another paragraph and another quick nap before I hear a knock on the door. I move to get up, but my mom stops me. "It's fine," she says. "I'll get it. It's probably Noah."

"Thanks," I say, relaxing again as she opens the door.

"Hey," Noah says, flopping down on the couch next to me after he greets my mom. My computer almost flies off my lap from the bounce, but I manage to catch it before it tumbles to the ground.

"Hi," I reply, turning to face him. His hair is completely soaked, droplets of water dripping from the ends and dampening his shirt.

"What are you working on?"

"Psychology essay."

"Can I read it?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Having people that I know read my writing is weird."

He leans over my shoulder. "Can you at least tell me the prompt?"

I scroll up, showing him the bolded prompt at the top of my paper. He whistles. "Wow, that sounds complicated."

I nod. "Yeah. Did you know that love is literally addictive? It activates the same part of your brain that addictive drugs do."

His brow wrinkles in confusion, and he hums. "That's weird. But maybe that's why I can't leave you alone."

"Maybe. Do you want a towel? Your hair's all wet."

"No, I'm good," he replies. "It'll dry soon enough."

I throw him a doubtful look, but he looks content, so I drop it. "How was school?" I ask.

He groans. "Boring. Your stuff looks way more interesting. I don't get why you're working, though. You're sick! You should be resting."

"I'm bored."

"You should do something entertaining that doesn't require thinking, then," he chides. "Not do homework."

"What do I do then? Everything that's fun requires thinking."

"You're weird. You don't like TV or movies?"

"Not really."

"Documentaries?"

"They're okay."

"Listening to music?"

"That's boring if I'm not doing something else at the same time."

He pouts. "You're no fun. We're going to sit here and be cozy and binge some show. I need to show you what I meant about rain being cozy, and it's the perfect weather for it. Look outside!"

He's right; it is the perfect weather for being cozy inside. Fat raindrops incessantly pound the ground outside, and the clouds overhead are dark and menacing. Though it's still early afternoon, with the sky so ominously dark, it looks much later.

"This is even the perfect room for it," Noah gushes, waving his hands around. "The lights in here are the perfect yellow tinge, and there's a giant window. Come on, let's go get blankets and cushions and stuff!"

I don't really want to stand up, of course, because I'm exhausted and still feel sick. But unfortunately, I'm no match for Noah's puppy dog eyes, his pout. There's no way I can say no. So I force myself to my feet, suppressing a grimace, and make my way upstairs.

All of our blankets and cushions are shoved haphazardly in the hall closet. There are so many of them lodged in there that I have trouble getting them out, but I manage to dislodge them with a few strong tugs, sending them tumbling out and onto the floor.

"Perfect!" Noah exclaims, practically vibrating with excitement. It's cute. Almost like a puppy about to be taken on a walk. "Let's take them all!"

"All of them?" I ask skeptically. "Noah, there's got to be at least thirty pounds of blankets here. We can't possibly use all of them."

"Of course we can!" He scoops up an armful and stands up, staggering a little under the weight. I'm pretty sure he can't see, either, because he almost walks head-first into the wall.

"Okay, fine," I sigh. I'm not quite sure how he's planning on walking safely down the stairs, but he seems so confident and proud of himself that I just let him do what he wants. With a watchful eye, of course. My fists involuntarily clench every time he trips and almost tumbles down the staircase, but somehow, he makes it to the bottom in one piece.

"Told you," he gloats, smirking up at me. "Now come on, toss the rest down. It'll be easier that way."

I gladly oblige, relieved that he isn't going to do that again or try to make me do the same. I'm still lightheaded enough that I'd easily lose my balance and fall. Noah cheers each time a pillow or blanket falls, which is funny the first few times but definitely starts to get old after the tenth time.

Eventually, I toss them all and then join Noah downstairs. He's thrown half of them over to the living room and is busy grabbing the rest, a bounce in his step. So much of a bounce, in fact, that he's practically hopping around. I feel my lips tug upward into a smile.

"How's it going?" I ask amusedly.

"Great!" he beams. "We're gonna make a blanket nest by the window and it's going to be amazing. I've already prepared, see?"

I follow his gaze to find that he's pushed the couch right up against the window and placed the lamp right next to it. He's also opened the curtains as far as they can go so that the stormy weather outside is on full display.

"Nice," I comment. "So, now what?"

"Now," he replies, "you go sit on the couch. I'll build around you and then I'll join you once it's done!"

"Sounds good." And I breathe a sigh of relief, because it really does sound good—the idea of sitting down on the couch seems really, really appealing right now. I shuffle over to the couch and flop down after snagging the box of tissues from the coffee table. I'll definitely be needing those.

Noah scurries around, tucking blankets around me until I'm surrounded in all directions. Then he grabs the pillows, piling those up and setting one gently on my head for good measure.

"There," he says, taking his phone out of his pocket. "Now you have a crown! It's gorgeous. Smile! I'm going to send a picture to Emma. She'll love it."

I grin awkwardly at the camera, blinking when the flash goes off. It definitely won't be a flattering picture, and there's a good chance my eyes are closed, but somehow, I don't care. There's a part of me that wants to document this time, no matter how stupid I look, because I know it won't last forever.

"Now we take one together!" Noah exclaims, worming his way into the tangle of pillows and blankets he's set up and snuggling in next to me. He leans in closer to me and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "Smile!"

After a second awkward picture, he puts his phone away and gestures around us. "Look, isn't this great?"

"It really is," I admit. Everything about the atmosphere right now is perfect, from the yellow lighting to the warm radiating off our bodies under the blankets to the stormy darkness outside. The only thing that isn't perfect about this moment is my cold, but even that seems insignificant, incomparable to the fuzzy warm buzzing in my chest.

"Let's binge-watch something now," he suggests, pulling my laptop onto his lap.

My brow wrinkles in confusion. "I thought you didn't like movies either?"

"I like shows that are more like documentaries. I'm in the middle of this show that's all about people who get really sick and it takes forever for doctors to figure out what's wrong with them."

"Why do you watch that?"

He shrugs. "It helps me remember that what I went through wasn't very bad and it could've been a lot worse."

I reach for his hand and squeeze it gently. "Noah, you've got to stop belittling yourself. Seriously. Just because your experience wasn't as horrible as it could have been doesn't mean it matters less."

"I guess. I just feel bad for wishing I felt better when other people were going through something worse. And then if I ever complained, people would tell me stuff like how they wished they could take my pain so I could be better. Which made me realize that I wouldn't want them to do that, because since I was used to it, I might as well keep it. Which made me want to complain even less. And now, whenever someone else is in pain, I want to take it from them."

I pull his arm around my shoulders—he'd removed it after our picture, sadly—and nestle my head into the space between his shoulder and his neck. "That's really amazing, Noah. I wish I could be that selfless. But you also have to put yourself first sometimes, you know? And it's okay to let it out, to talk about it if you want," I tell him. "I'd be more worried if you didn't talk about it at all."

"Okay." He sighs. "But also, that doesn't mean I shouldn't like this show. I'm sure normal people who haven't gotten sick like that like watching it too. We're still going to watch it. And if you don't like it, let it put you to sleep. Or tell me and we can watch something else." He pulls me towards him, so close that I'm nearly on top of him, and opens my computer. Pulling up YouTube, he finds an episode and places the computer on my lap where we can both see it.

I lean my head back against his shoulder, enjoying the feeling of happiness and security I get from being so close to him. Even though he ran all the way here from his school, I have to admit that he still smells good, at least from what I can tell with my stuffy nose.

"Can you pass me a tissue?" I ask, pointing to the box from where it rests on the couch. It was knocked just out of my reach earlier, and I was too lazy to get back up to get it. He hands me one, and I blow my nose as much as I can before setting the tissue in the bag with the rest and settling back down, sighing contentedly. "You smell good."

Instead of getting all flustered like I expect him to, he just laughs. "You smell good too."

"Thanks." Then I laugh, too. "That was really weird."

"Yeah," he agrees. "It was. But that's okay."

I take his hand and flip it over so I can see his palm and run my fingers across it.

"Noah?" I ask, interrupting the show again. But I doubt he minds, since I don't think he's paying that much attention either. He doesn't even bother to pause it.

"Abbie?" he replies jokingly. Hearing him say that still send shock coursing through my body, but in a good way, I think. It's almost a thrilling feeling, sending a shiver down my spine.

"Where'd you get this scar?" I ask absentmindedly, tracing the line that goes from the base of his pinky all the way to his wrist. It's mostly faded by now, but it's still noticeably smoother and paler than the rest of his skin.

He chuckles, sending vibrations up and down my back. "It was a stupid accident."

That only makes me more curious. "What happened?"

"I was pushing on this door and I got really frustrated when it didn't open, so I pushed harder, and my hand went through the glass. It turned out I was supposed to pull instead of push." He laughs sheepishly. "I had to go get stitches. It was really painful."

I laugh with him. "I hate it when they don't label the doors," I comment. "I always try the wrong way first. How long ago was this?"

"I'm not sure exactly. Six or seven years ago?"

"Wow, you were strong for a ten-year-old."

"I think the door was just old and brittle," he replies. "Besides, there was only one pane of glass. It was an old building."

"Yeah."

Our conversation trails off, so I turn my gaze back to the computer screen, though I'm not really focused on what's going on—I'm more focused on how Noah's presence makes me feel better, and how much he means to me. The thought scares me quite a lot, because once I acknowledge how much he means to me, I acknowledge how much I need him, how much it would break me if he left me or if I had to leave him.

I really, really don't want to move again.