Tied Up in You

by Erin Fletcher

  “Hey,” he said.

  Or at least that’s what I thought he said. His voice was hoarse and thick, like he had a cold. I motioned him inside and closed the door against the cold outside. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Aren’t you supposed to be at practice right now?”

  He just looked at me and sniffled. “I don’t know which one of those questions you want me to answer,” he said. Then he coughed and walked over to the couch, where he flopped down face first.

  I sat down on the edge of the coffee table. My six-foot-tall, manly hockey player of a friend was quite a sight—feet sticking off the end of the couch, nose and cheeks red either from the temperature cold or the illness cold, huddling into his coat like it was the last warmth on Earth, fists tucked up under his chin like a kid. I tried my questions again, one at a time. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” he said, but the n sounded more like a d. “I’m dying.”

  This was typical Jackson. I remembered once during our freshman year when he broke his arm playing hockey. He kept playing for the rest of the period, until his coach realized how bad it was and made him sit the bench before going to get x-rays, which resulted in a cast from his fingers to his elbow. But give that same guy a cold, and all of the toughness went out the window.

  I pushed the awkwardness of the past two days aside. None of that mattered if Jackson was sick. I untied his shoes and slipped them off his feet. He curled up on his side, tucking his feet against the end of the couch. “Too sick to be at practice?”

  “Yeah. I tried to go, but I kept coughing. Coach sent me home.” As if to demonstrate this fact, he coughed.

  I leaned back a little bit. If he got me sick, he was going to be in trouble. At least I didn’t have to worry about wanting to kiss him, but I did feel bad. He sounded miserable. “So why aren’t you at home in bed?”

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug that rustled his coat. “My mom is working some event all day. I didn’t want to be alone.” He coughed again, this time so hard his eyes watered.

  This brought Tutu into the living room, lauhala and knife still in her hands. “Jackson?” she asked with a frown.

  He looked up at her and smiled, which would have been adorable if he didn’t follow it up by sneezing so hard it almost gave me a headache. Poor guy.

  “Hey, Tutu.”

  She said something in Hawaiian, too fast and advanced for me to understand, but the tone made it clear she was unhappy with Jackson’s current state of wellness. “You’re sick,” she said. “You need mamaki. And soup.” She nodded at me, in full-on Tutu mode. “Get him a blanket and a pillow.” Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to be at home alone?” I asked.

  He smiled and sneezed twice. “I love Tutu. But what is mamki?”

  “Mamaki,” I corrected, and wrinkled my nose. “Hawaiian medicinal tea. I’ll tell her to put lots of honey and lemon in it. Be right back.” I ran up the stairs to my bedroom and grabbed a pillow and blanket. Then I stopped by the bathroom to grab a box of tissues. For a second, I let myself wonder. What was Jackson really doing there? He wasn’t sick enough that he couldn’t be alone. If he told his mom he was too sick to be at practice, she’d probably leave work to take care of him anyway. And our couch wasn’t as comfortable as his bed. Yet there he was.

  When I got back downstairs, Jackson hadn’t moved an inch. His eyes were closed, but I could tell he wasn’t sleeping. The boy could—and did—sleep anywhere at any time even when healthy, so he must not have been very comfortable in order to still be awake.

  “Here,” I said.

  When he opened his eyes, he sat up a little so I could put the pillow down on the end of the couch. He took off his coat and settled back against the pillow, adjusting a few times. After I covered him with a blanket, he said, “Thank you.” Only it sounded more like “thadk you.”

  I sat down on the edge of the coffee table again. Now he looked ready to sleep, but I needed to keep him awake until Tutu could get some tea into him. “Must be killing you for practice to be going on without you.”

  He nodded and sniffled. “First practice I’ve ever missed. But it was really cold. And I kept having to stop because I was sneezing or coughing. I was too tired to really skate, but my last practice was rough, and I really wanted to show Coach that I’m not losing my touch…”

  I patted his arm. “You’ll show him that as soon as you’re feeling better. Or, if I know you as well as I think I do, you’ll show him before you’re completely better, as soon as you’re able to be upright and make it around the rink without sneezing.”

  “You know me pretty well.”

  At that moment, Tutu entered the living room, carrying a steaming mug. Jackson sat up against the pillow, and she handed it over to him.

  “Mamaki,” she said. “It’s Hawaiian leaves that are used to make tea for wellness.”

  “Did you put lots of honey and lemon in it?” I asked. Once, when I had strep throat, I’d been victim of mamaki without honey and lemon, and it was an experience from which I wanted to shield Jackson.

  “Yes, of course,” Tutu said. “Drink. It will make you better.”

  Jackson took a tentative sip. Tutu waited patiently. “It’s good,” he said after a few seconds. “Hot, but good. Thank you, Tutu.”

  Tutu beamed. “I’m making you soup. You’ll be well in no time.” Then she shuffled back to the kitchen.

  So much for my lauhala lesson. I saw where I rated in comparison to Jackson.

  “My mom didn’t have any soup in the pantry.” Jackson rubbed at one of his red-rimmed eyes. “What kind of parent doesn’t keep soup on hand in case her kid gets sick?”

  With a lurch in my stomach, it clicked into place: the real reason why Jackson was there. It had nothing to do with me. I forced a smile. “Ah, so you’re using me for my grandma and our pantry, huh?”

  He went wide eyed. “No. Of course not. I wanted—”

  “I’m kidding,” I said, even though I hadn’t been. Not completely. “You’re sick. You deserve to be in a place where people will take care of you and make you sick-people food. Speaking of”—I lowered my voice a little—“how’s the tea, really? I won’t tell Tutu. Do you need more honey?”

  “Honestly, it’s good. Feels good on my throat.”

  “Good.” I nodded toward the TV. “Want to watch a movie or an episode of The Haunting?”

  “Sure,” he said after taking another sip.

  I grabbed the remote, and he shifted a little so I could sit next to him. “I get to pick because you’ll be asleep before the opening credits are over.”

  “Never,” he said.

  “Always.”

  Sure enough, I picked a movie, Jackson finished his tea, and before the last of the opening credits, he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder, coughing a little less and breathing a little easier than he had been before the tea.

  That’s all he wanted. Tea. Tutu. To have a shoulder to sleep on. Any shoulder. It had nothing to do with me.

  And I tried to tell myself that was okay.

  But I also didn’t move an inch.

  Chapter Eight

  Jackson

  “Why aren’t you working on your project?” I asked and then sniffled. We’d watched a few movies—or, rather, Malina had watched a few movies while I slept—but we were just sitting in the dark while she scrolled through her phone and I finished the soup Tutu had made me. I couldn’t taste much of anything, but even just the warmth of the soup helped. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been this sick. Even worse than the coughing or headache or sore throat was just how gross I felt.

  “Because I’m sitting here taking care of you,” Malina said, but her tone was teasing.

  Could I have taken care of myself? Sure. Did I want to? No. And I felt sorry enough for myself in my weakened state that I gave in and let myself spend the day at her house.

  “Will you work on it if I leave?” I asked, setting my emp
ty bowl on the coffee table.

  “Maybe. But you don’t have to leave if you don’t want to.”

  “Thanks, but I should go.” As much as I didn’t want to go, my mom was home from work, and I was feeling the “going to pass out for the entire night” kind of tired. This day had been an exception. As soon as I went home and got better, I’d be back to focusing on hockey. She’d be back to focusing on school. I’d also be back to trying to forget about the kiss, but that didn’t mean I was happy about it. What Pierce had said the other day ran through my mind. Maybe there was one way to make this day less of an exception. Or maybe it was my head cold dulling my senses, but I asked, “Hey, do you want to come to a party with me?”

  “A party?” she asked. “With you? Now?”

  “No. Friday. But yeah. A team party. Matthews said we could bring a friend or whoever. Just celebrating the fact that we’re in town and have a night off.”

  Both the fact that she didn’t say anything and the hesitant look on her face let me know this had been a terrible idea. Of course she didn’t want to go to a party with me.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I really do have a lot of homework and volunteering to do this weekend. I’m not sure—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, I sneezed five times, waited to see if there was going to be a sixth, and then groaned.

  She handed me the box of tissues and said, “But I don’t know that I can turn down a dying man’s last wish.”

  For a second, I had no clue what she was talking about. It was like my brain was an Etch A Sketch and sneezing had wiped my thoughts clean. But then I remembered. “You mean you’ll go to the party?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “If I get enough work done. And if you’re less of a biohazard by then.”

  The tight disappointment I’d been prepared for was replaced with hope. “I will be,” I said, and cleared my throat to fight back a cough that would negate that statement. “It’ll be fun. You deserve a night off. But for now”—I stood, hesitating for a second when my stuffy head made me dizzy—“I should let you work on your project. Maybe tonight’s the night you figure it out.”

  “Yeah. Maybe your germs have magical STEM properties and they’ve spread all over me.”

  I sniffled. “Sorry.”

  She laughed. “Kidding. You’re fine.”

  This would usually be when I’d hug her. I’d hugged her a thousand times after nights of hanging out like this. Normally, I’d want to hug her to thank her for taking care of me and to steal a tiny bit more comfort from her before heading home. But would I be able to hug her without kissing her? Wondering that felt crazy, but then again, the kiss had happened with much less than a hug.

  Before I could think of what to do, Malina made the decision for me. She leaned in and wrapped her arms around me, her head up against my chest. Naturally, I pulled her close, but the whole time I was thinking, Don’t kiss her. Don’t pay attention to the way her hair smells like mangoes and she feels so good in your arms. You’re sick and gross and she wouldn’t want you to kiss her even if you weren’t. Do. Not. Kiss. Her.

  Then she let me go, and I followed suit. Success. But wow, my bar for success had really lowered that I considered “not accidentally kissing my best friend” to be any kind of success. And that was only a partial success, because it didn’t mean I didn’t want to kiss her.

  “Thank Tutu for the tea and the soup from me.”

  “I will. Do you think you’ll be at school tomorrow?”

  I shrugged. Honestly, I’d look for any excuse to get out of school, and a nose that was running like a faucet and a cough that made me sound like a pack-a-day smoker was a pretty good excuse. The only reason I’d want to be there would be to see her. But seeing her wasn’t the best idea for many reasons. “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  “Okay. Feel better.”

  I put on my coat and headed out to my car. When I got there, despite the cold, I just sat in the front seat and smiled. Malina was going to the party with me. As a friend, but still. And I’d hugged her. And maybe that hug was better than the kiss because she initiated it. And I loved the way she felt in my arms.

  I knew this couldn’t go anywhere. I knew with my hockey and her school and what had happened between us this past week that nothing could happen with Malina. I knew all of that.

  But that didn’t stop me from smiling the whole way home.

  Chapter Nine

  Malina

  “Close,” Izzy said, motioning for me to shut my eyes. “Why are you so worried about how you look for this party anyway? It’s just Jackson. Unless you still aren’t over that kiss?”

  “I am,” I said, trying not to squirm under the lie as she ran eyeliner above my right eyelashes. “It’s just that it’s a team party. I’ve never been to one of these before, so I want to make sure I look good.” It had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to look good for Jackson. Nope. Not one thing.

  “Whatever you say,” Izzy said.

  She put eyeliner on my left eye, told me to open, then leaned back a foot or two from where I was sitting on my bed to study her work. She grabbed a Q-tip and used it to fix the outside corner of my right eye, then nodded. “Perfect. You want eye shadow?”

  “Whatever you think. But don’t make me look like a clown.”

  She pulled a face at that, and dug around in her makeup bag. Of course she’d arrived with her own tools, because the amount of makeup I owned was slim to none. The amount of makeup I wore on a regular basis was even slimmer and none-er.

  “I think this color will be perfect with your complexion,” she said, holding up a container of what I assumed was eye shadow. “Close.”

  I did, and she brushed something soft across my lids.

  “So, are you nervous?” she asked.

  “No. I mean, Jackson will be there the entire time. I know a lot of the guys already. Pierce is bringing his girlfriend, Lia, who I’ve met a few times.”

  “Hmm,” Izzy said. “Girlfriend. Are you sure this isn’t some kind of couples thing?”

  “Positive. It’s just for fun. I think Jackson knew I needed a night off as much as he does.”

  “If you say so. Open,” she said, and immediately went after my left eye with a mascara wand.

  I flinched hard. “Whoa!”

  “What?”

  I blinked a few times, and then opened my eye for her. “Warn a girl next time, okay? Remember, this makeup thing is still new to me.”

  “Sorry,” Izzy said. She finished putting on the mascara, added a little blush to my cheeks, and applied some lip stain, all the while rambling about this new design for a dress she was working on. It was no surprise that she’d also begged me to let her pick my outfit for the night: a pair of leggings, a flowing shirt that was probably too thin for the Michigan weather, and my favorite pair of flats because she said they gave me more confidence than being tall yet uncomfortable in heels would.

  “Okay,” she said. “I think you’re done.” She adjusted my hair so it fell in a nice layer over my right shoulder, and then said, “You may now look in a mirror.”

  Even though I trusted Izzy, I still walked slowly to the bathroom down the hall, delaying the inevitable. When I got to the mirror, I did a double take. It was definitely still me, but I looked prettier. Older. More mature. More…something. The hair, the makeup, the outfit…it was all perfect.

  “Well?” Izzy asked, appearing in the mirror beside me.

  “You’re a genius,” I said, unable to hide a grin.

  She brushed her shoulders off. “You know it. Okay, I should go before he gets here.” She gave me a quick hug. “Text me when it’s over? Or, you know, text me from there if it’s lame and you need a distraction.”

  “Deal,” I said, praying it wouldn’t come to that.

  “And make good choices. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  That meant all guys were off-limits. I laughed. “Maybe. Thank you again. For all of this.”

 
; “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

  As we walked to the door, I asked, “What are you up to tonight?”

  “Well, Kylie’s busy tonight, so I’m babysitting.” She shrugged. “If I can’t be with her, at least I can make some cash.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll enjoy my evening with a four-year-old and six-year-old exactly as much as you’ll enjoy yours, I’m sure.”

  I laughed. “Bye, Iz.”

  “Bye, Malina. Aloha, Hall family!” she called, and then headed out the front door. But she didn’t get very far before she said, “Oh! Hey, Jackson.”

  “Hey, Izzy. Love the hair.”

  Though I couldn’t see him yet because a wall blocked them, I could hear their conversation loud and clear.

  “Thanks. Malina’s inside. Have a good time tonight.”

  “Thanks. See ya around.”

  Then Jackson appeared, but stopped when he saw me.

  “Hey,” I said.

  For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything. He stood there and stared at my hair, my face, my shirt…crap. I’d told Izzy this shirt was too low cut, and now I had the proof.

  “Jackson?”

  “Huh?” He snapped to attention. “Oh. Sorry. Hi. You look…beautiful.”

  “That’s all Izzy’s doing,” I said. “You look nice, too.”

  He didn’t just look “nice.” He looked good. Instead of his usual sweats or hockey attire, he was wearing tight jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt under his USA Hockey coat. His hair, though messy as usual, looked like it might be a little more intentionally messy than normal. I forced myself to stop staring.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “Want to come in? I need to grab my phone.” And a sweater to cover up this shirt, I thought.

  “Sure. I’m early. We have time.”

  He walked inside and I closed the door behind him. “Feeling better?” I asked. He sounded a lot better than the last time he was over. No stuffy nose. No coughing or sneezing.