9 - C H A N C E

Even though Noah said he'd text me, I don't get a text from him the next day. Or the next, or the next, or the next. Almost a week goes by before I finally get a text from him. And when I finally do, it scares me.

Please come help me

Are you okay??? I respond right away, staring intently at my phone screen as if glaring at it will make him respond faster. The only response I get is an address, which does nothing to make me feel better. I get dressed and rush downstairs, throwing on a coat as I go and plugging the address into my phone. "I'm going out," I call over my shoulder as I walk out the door. I'm not sure if my mom heard me, but that's not really high on my list of priorities right now. I actually have my phone for once. She can call me if she needs to.

The address he sent me appears to be a house address, so I'm guessing he's at home. I hope everything's okay, but as I walk, my head fills with thoughts of everything that could be wrong. Maybe he fell and hurt himself, or maybe someone's broken into his house. It sounds like there's some kind of emergency, and the fact that he hasn't told me what's wrong is worrying. My thoughts make me walk faster until I'm almost sprinting down the sidewalk, despite my disgust for running.

I hadn't realized he lived so close to me, but the walk is surprisingly short, and it's only about five minutes later that I'm knocking on his front door. I wait hesitantly after I'm met with only silence, not sure if I should knock again or not. Nobody comes to answer, but I get a text.

the door is unlocked. you can come in. come upstairs.

Frowning, I twist the door handle, finding it unlocked just like Noah said. The door creaks as I gently push it open, only serving to further emphasize the silence. I expect to hear some sort of commotion or hear him call out, but there's nothing.

When I walk inside, there's a living room off to my right. The cushions and furniture are all impeccably in place, as if the room is more for display than use. To my left is what I'd assume to be an office, also impeccably organized. I wonder why everything's so clean and organized. It's almost disturbing to me, since it's always a mess wherever I stay.

Glancing around for the stairs, I find them in the corner of the living room, and after taking one last look around, I head up. "Noah?" I call hesitantly as I walk, trying to avoid making the stairs creak so I don't disturb him. At least his stairs are carpeted instead of wooden.

"In my room," I hear him call out, his voice quiet and raspy. I follow the sound of his voice, finding him lying in bed in his room, the covers pulled up to his shoulders and tucked around his chin despite his flushed face. "Hey," he greets weakly as I walk in the door.

"Noah, what's wrong?" I breathe as I walk over to his bed and sit down on the edge.

"Sick," he answers, nodding towards the nearly full grocery bag full of used tissues on his nightstand. When I look back at his face, I notice the skin around his nose is all red and raw.

I purse my lips. "Where are your parents?"

"Work." His voice is shaky, and he looks like he's about to cry. "I don't feel so good. My head feels like it's going to explode, talking hurts, and I'm so lightheaded I feel like I'm dreaming. And I can't fall asleep, even though I'm so tired I can't move." He turns to look at me, his eyes glassy with fatigue and tears. His hands twitch a few times, almost as if he wants to reach out to me, but he doesn't move. "What if I don't get better?"

I place my hand on his forehead and nearly pull it back in shock over how warm it is. "I think you have a fever," I explain as gently as possible. "And a cold. But of course you'll get better. It's just a cold. Can I leave for a second to go get you some medicine?"

He shakes his head stubbornly, and this time, he really does reach out. He curls his fingers around my wrist and clutches so tightly it hurts. His hands are cold and clammy, despite the four blankets piled on top of him. "You don't understand. What if I don't get better? What if it ends up like last time?"

"You didn't get better last time?" When he shakes his head, I sigh, gently prying my wrist from his grasp and squeezing his hand in hopes of giving him comfort. He's scaring me—I don't know why he's talking about not getting better, and I don't know how to reassure him. I don't know him nearly well enough to know what to say to comfort him. "If it's okay that I leave for a few minutes, I'll go get you some medicine to help you feel better. Have you taken medicine yet?"

"Nope. Too tired." His words are slurring together, and I wonder how long it's been since he's slept. His pale skin from his cold draws even more attention to the massive bags under his eyes, so dark they look like twin bruises.

"Can I go get you some?"

He nods, looking at the wall. "Leave the door open. Medicine's in the bathroom. Can you get me another blanket?"

"Yeah. I'll be right back." I can't help but notice this is the second time he's asked me to leave the door open, but as curious as I am, I don't want to question him now. He seems too exhausted to think clearly, and I don't want to make him feel worse.

After squeezing his hand one last time, I stand up and walk out of the room, heading downstairs first to find a blanket. I'm reluctant to get him one because his fever feels so high, but I don't want him to be cold, either. Fevers are always the worst part of getting sick for me, since they always make me freezing cold but hot at the same time. No matter what I do, I always end up uncomfortable.

I grab one of the fuzzy blankets from his living room, placing it on the stairs when I realize that it might be good to get him some food and water first before heading back up. If he hasn't taken medicine yet, then I doubt he's had anything to eat or drink either, which isn't good. He needs to eat at least a little bit if he wants to get better.

Once I've gathered everything, I make my way back upstairs to the bathroom, looking through a few cabinets before finding a box labeled cold and flu medicine. I grab the whole box and reenter Noah's room with an armful of stuff.

He looks at me questioningly as I set everything down. Well, as questioningly as he can without really moving his face. "Crackers," I say, handing him the bag. "Hot water and cold water, since I wasn't sure which one you wanted. And another blanket." Instead of just handing him the blanket, I stand up, unfold it, and drape it on top of all his others. He sighs, snuggling down even more.

"Thanks," he mumbles quietly.

"Can you eat a little bit?" I ask him, rummaging through the medicine box. "It's normally best to take medicine with a little bit of food."

He makes a face. "I feel pretty nauseous," he says, but he picks up the bag of crackers and starts nibbling on a corner of one anyway. It makes me smile at how complacent he is like this, even if it's not for a good reason. It's a weird shift from his normal personality.

"Here," I say, handing him a pill bottle. "Take two of those now. You can take another one in four to six hours. It should help your fever, headache, and sore throat."

He nods, sitting up a little bit as he reaches for the bottle of warm water and swallows the pill. Then, he settles back down and gathers the corners of the blankets into a ball to hug. He looks at me sleepily through heavy-lidded eyes. "Swallowing pills hurts," he mumbles with a wince.

"Is there anything else I can do?" I ask him, running my fingers through his hair in what I hope is a soothing gesture. I think it must be, because he lets out a quiet hum and shakes his head sleepily. His mouth even curves upward the tiniest bit into the hint of a smile.

"Just stay here," he says through a yawn. "You help me sleep because you make me feel safe." Seemingly not realizing how open and blunt he's being, his eyes flutter shut, and he leans into my touch on his head.

His comment brings yet another involuntary smile onto my face. He's been taking care of me pretty much the whole time so far, bringing me out of the rain and introducing me to people and showing me around town. It feels good to be able to take care of him, too. I'm glad he trusts me.

Once his breathing deepens and steadies into a more regular rhythm, I pull out my phone from my pocket with my free hand and text Emma. Is Noah always so clingy and open and complacent when he's sick? I ask.

She replies a few minutes later. Yeah. Being sick really scares him. You should probably find out why from him, but for now, just comfort him. Has he said anything weird?

Well, he said that I make him feel safe?? He's kind of word-vomity

HA OMG I KNEW IT

Knew what?

I'M GOING TO WIN THE BET

Bet?

You should ask him about that, too, Emma replies. Please tell me how he responds!! I can almost imagine the evil grin on her face, which has me conflicted. I really want to know what she's talking about, but at the same time, I can tell from her smugness that it's not something Noah likes, and I don't want to make him any more distressed than he already is.

Okay? I type back uncertainly. When I don't get a reply, I turn my phone off and lean my head forward, resting it on the edge of Noah's bed as I continue to play with his hair. I'm can't help but be jealous—it's really soft and has no tangles, which surprises me because it's pretty long and he's been lying in bed for probably a few hours. If I even touch my much shorter hair to something, it'll tangle itself into impossible knots that take forever to get out.

Over the course of the next two hours, Noah stirs every time I try to take my hand away, so I end up switching hands every few minutes to rest my arms. I'd much rather sit up on the bed next to him to make my arms more comfortable, but I don't want to risk waking him up since it's so hard for him to fall asleep, so I stay seated on the floor. Eventually, his eyes slowly flutter open, blinking a few times against the light.

"Hey, Noah," I say softly. I'm met with a blank stare. "How are you feeling?"

"Chance?"

"Yeah?"

"What's going on?"

"You're sick."

"No duh," he deadpans, but his tone is dull, lacking his usual sassiness. "I can tell. I hurt absolutely everywhere. But why are you here?"

"Because you asked me to be," I say simply, removing my hand from his head when he moves to sit up. "I think your fever's broken. How are you feeling otherwise?"

"I did what?" he asks, ignoring my questions.

"You asked me to come over," I repeat. "How are you feeling?"

"Guilty," he says, not meeting my eyes just like last time he slept next to me. "You shouldn't have come."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to bother you."

"You're not bothering me. You're giving me a chance to help you. I want to help. Is that a bad thing?"

He looks away. "I still feel like I'm bothering you. What if you get sick?"

I shake my head stubbornly. It makes me sad that he thinks he's being bothersome every time he asks or does something for himself. After all, he's helped me so much and doesn't seem bothered by it. I don't get why he can't understand that it works the same way in the other direction, too. "It's not bothersome if I want to do it. Stop worrying about it. Are you hungry at all? Can you eat something?"

"Yeah, I'm kind of hungry."

"Alright, I'll head downstairs and make you a grilled cheese." I give him a sharp look. "No arguing. Come downstairs if you can, and if not, I'll bring it up when I'm done."

He still tries to protest, but I just walk out of the room and down the stairs, ignoring any complaints he makes.

I didn't have time to appreciate it earlier, but his kitchen is nice. Really nice. It's large and spacious with granite countertops and modern appliances. There's a box window overlooking his front yard, too, which probably has a really pretty view later in the spring when the flowers start to bloom. But right now, it just shows an empty flowerbed.

I turn on the stove and put the pan on one of the burners, letting it preheat. Then, I get out the butter and cheese from the fridge and the bread from the cabinet, trying not to make too much noise even though I know he's awake. I'm not sure if he still has a headache or not, but loud noises certainly won't help either way.

He pads into the room as I put the sandwich in the pan, the fuzzy blanket that I brought upstairs earlier draped around his shoulders. It's a deep purple, and it makes him look like a discombobulated king or a magician or something. "It should be ready in about five minutes," I tell him.

"Thanks," he says, taking a seat at the counter. "And thanks for coming. Really."

"Thanks for not kicking me out," I respond, grinning. "Now, where's your spatula?"

He points to a drawer. "In there. How'd you know where everything else is?"

"I found stuff when I was looking for those crackers." I use the spatula to expertly flip the sandwich. Because while I might not be able to cook anything besides a grilled cheese sandwich, that doesn't mean I can't make a really good one. "You have so many drawers and cabinets in your kitchen!"

"Yeah. My parents love cooking, so having a large kitchen was a requirement when they bought the house. It's really useful on holidays and stuff when we're all working in the kitchen."

I notice him rubbing his throat and wincing a little as he talks, so I get out a glass and fill it with warm water. He has a fancy appliance next to his sink that lets out boiling hot water instead of regular cold water, which honestly makes me kind of jealous. I wish I had one solely for the purpose of making tea quickly without having to wait a few minutes for the water to boil.

"Here," I say. "Drink this while you wait. It might help your throat." I pause. "Oh, Emma said to ask you about a bet."

I watch as Noah's expression turns from disbelief to embarrassment to anger. "Ugh, I'm going to kill her."

"Why?"

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. "How much did she tell you?"

"She said that she knew she was going to win the bet. She didn't say what it was about."

"Thank goodness," he breathes, taking a sip of the water.

I look at him questioningly as I take the sandwich out of the pan and put it onto a plate for him, but he doesn't elaborate. "I'm guessing you're not going to tell me?" I ask, somewhat disappointed. They've both gotten me really curious, and refusing to tell me anything is only making it worse.

"No way," he grumbles. "It's embarrassing. But thanks for the sandwich!"

"You're welcome," I respond, sitting down in the chair next to him. I look down at my hands, trying to decide whether or not to ask him about what he said earlier, and though I'm not exactly sure how to ask, my curiosity gets the better of me. "Hey, why were you so worried about not getting better?"

He looks up with a sharp inhale. "How'd you know?"

I smile. "When I got here and you had a fever, you kept blurting stuff out."

He looks horrified. "What else did I say?"

"You told me that I make you feel safe. And you made me pet your head." I laugh a little bit. "You're adorable when you're sick. It's like you turn into a kid, but in a good way, not a scary toddler way."

"Yeah, being sick freaks me out," he admits. He's on the verge of tears again, though he's desperately trying to hide it by widening his eyes and refusing to blink. But I can still tell by the way his eyes get all glassy and his lower lip trembles. "I got sick a few years ago and I still haven't forgotten."

"Why?"

He pauses to finish the last bite of his sandwich before answering. "Do I really have to answer?"

I shake my head. "No, you don't have to. I don't want to push you to answer. But I really don't mind listening if it would help you to talk about it."

"Okay, I'll tell you."