The Mix-Up by Holly McCulloch

CHAPTER 14

I stayed at Noah’s flat last night. I should not have done this. There was absolutely no hint of sex which is a worrying sign. I fear that the waters are becoming murky. Noah was clearly still not feeling very well when we moved from sleeping on the sofa to sleeping in the bed, and then when I woke, I instantly remembered a hint of a dream. It was a nice dream, but dangerous. Noah and I were together together. And now that I’m even more awake, that sound bite about the robin keeps replaying in my head. Part of me wants to question him about it. Does he mean that we are partners? And if so, what exactly does he mean by ‘partner’? It’s such a broad term. Business partner? Life partner? Silent partner? John Lewis and Partner? Does he even remember saying it? Does it actually not mean anything at all? Mika’s words of warning are still in my mind. She told me not to get attached. She told me he is attentive until he’s not. But would I want it to mean something? Some people thrive on drama and feelings and potential, but I am not one of these people. When I see potential, all I see is potential for pain and disaster and inevitable disappointment and heartache. It makes me want to run away.

But instead of leaving, it’s 7 a.m. and I am still here. I am still here because I cannot move, and I cannot move because I feel awful.

My head hurts, and not just from overthinking. It feels as though so much pressure has built up in my sinuses that I might explode. Being able to breathe properly is a distant memory. My body aches all over. My throat hurts. My eyes itch. My nose won’t stop weeping. Even my shoulders are tired.

I don’t want Noah to see me this way. I know that I saw him this way, but being ugly is harder for girls than it is for boys. Somehow it is acceptable for them. For us, it’s almost as though we have failed.

I must move even though the thought does not fill me with happiness.

I am facing away from him, but I can sense Noah next to me in the bed. Under normal circumstances I would turn around to check he is still asleep before sneaking out, but this time I don’t. I don’t want to move my body any more than absolutely necessary.

I sit up slowly and orientate myself. In addition to the aforementioned ailments, I also feel a bit nauseous. I had not noticed this when lying down.

I get out of bed. I never sleep naked, so all I have to do is put on my jeans. Which I do, followed by my socks. Anyone with any sense knows this is the wrong way around, but in my state, I cannot be a slave to process. I grab my bag and head for the door.

‘Where are you going?’ I stop. Halfway to my destination. ‘You can’t think I would let you sneak out again.’

I turn around to face him.

He jumps out of bed immediately and comes over, taking my bag from me, concern in his eyes.

‘You don’t look like you feel very well.’

His question breaks me. I shake my head. ‘I don’t. I don’t feel well at all.’

‘Shit. This is my fault. I made you ill.’ He hugs me close. ‘Come here.’ I sway a little. ‘Stay and I’ll look after you.’ I shouldn’t stay. He will never want to sleep with me again if I stay. But the hug feels good. The hug is easing some of my ache. I guess I might as well end our two-week run in a glorious halo of snot.

I nod, defeated, and hope I’m not leaving a snot trail on his top.

‘OK, it’s not going to be as good as yours. But it shouldn’t be too bad.’

I look over at Noah from my position on the couch. He’s been apologizing all morning. I’ve let him. He should feel bad because I feel terrible. I’ve spent the whole morning in a similar position to the cocoon, but in a break from tradition, I’ve chosen true crime documentaries to half nap in front of. Something about the tone is very soporific.

He meanders his way over with a bowl of homemade chicken soup. By the time he reaches me, I don’t know which he is more proud of – the soup itself, or the fact he carried it over without spilling it.

‘Thank you.’

I take it from him and smell it. He is looking at me really intensely. It looks OK. It smells OK. I risk a taste.

It tastes a lot like … salt. A lot of salt. I swallow, forcing it down.

‘Is it good?’ He is still watching my every move for some kind of reaction, and his face is still wearing the extremely proud expression of a few moments ago.

I don’t know what to do.

I could try another mouthful, just in case the salt was concentrated in one particular spot.

I take the tiniest of mouthfuls, but despite its small size, I fear it still contains five times my recommended daily salt intake.

I can’t eat this. If I eat this, I risk poisoning myself.

‘Well?’

‘It’s really good, but it’s maybe a little salty?’

‘Really?’ He goes back to the kitchen and tastes it himself. I don’t think the soup has even hit his tongue before he spits it straight out into the sink. ‘A little salty? This is disgusting.’ He turns on the tap and starts drinking from it. Finally coming up for air he says, ‘You are very kind to lie to me that badly.’

Without me asking, he freshens my drink and sits down next to me. He looks so sad.

‘I don’t understand. I followed the recipe exactly.’

‘Well how much salt did you put in?’

He manoeuvres to get out his phone. ‘OK.’ There’s a pause as he scrolls for the recipe. ‘It says one generous tablespoon, so I put two medium ones in.’

I don’t know how to tell him that this is far too much. He shows me his phone.

‘See?’

I read and nod. I do see. ‘It says one teaspoon.’

He takes his phone back as though I must be lying, or illiterate.

He looks again and closes his eyes in defeat.

I nudge him. ‘It’s OK. It’s an easy mistake to make. I don’t really fancy soup anyway. And now you know.’

‘I’m sorry. It was meant to make you feel better.’

‘Ah, but you see, like I said yesterday, I think drugs are more effective than soup, and you gave me drugs, so I do feel better. The soup is just food.’

Like a child who’s just thought of a great game, he sits up straighter and once again looks happy and animated and full of joy. ‘I could try again!’

Dear god no. ‘Actually, I would love to go for a walk, so why don’t we go outside and get food?’

‘Really?’ He looks a little sceptical, so I nod as much as my brain can manage in an effort to convince him.

‘Yes. Really.’

I take an unusually inefficient shower before we leave and borrow a top and a jumper from Noah. I’m not small, but it’s nice to feel the jumper drown me slightly.

Finally outside, I can’t help the shiver that comes out.

Noah catches it. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have left the house.’ He tucks me under his arm. I try not to let the awkwardness I feel on the inside reveal itself, but this seems like a very intimate action. It feels like something a boyfriend and girlfriend should do. It does not feel like something Noah and I should do. Once again, I want to ask him exactly what he meant with the robin comment. But before I can summon up the courage, Noah asks a question of his own.

‘What kind of cuisine are you after? Italian? Vietnamese? Greek? Mexican? Cheese?’

I frown. ‘Is cheese a cuisine?’

I feel him shrug next to me. ‘If it isn’t, it should be.’

I think for a bit. Letting the idea of each option percolate before deciding which one sits best. ‘Let’s go Vietnamese.’ It’s a cuisine that I struggle to make myself. Try as I might, the flavours never come out the way they should. Plus, this way I can order some chicken pho, and pretend it isn’t quite the same as chicken soup.