felt like long seconds, neither of them said a word—long enough that the phone screen went dark again, long enough that Nora began to feel a nervous anticipation set in. The truth was, no matter what had happened between her and Will since that first morning, pretty much every golden hour since, she’d thought of him: of him and her on their respective balconies, whispering to each other before they knew they’d be enemies.
She wanted, desperately, to believe that he’d thought about it, too.
But if he left now—now that he was assured the worst of her illness was over, or now that she’d removed her drooling face from his lap—she’d know she was alone in clinging to that memory.
“Even on your sick days, you’re an early riser,” he finally said, his voice quieter, almost a whisper, almost like he had on that morning outside, and she breathed what she hoped was a silent sigh of relief, sinking back onto the pillows she’d apparently never slept on. She tried to imagine the space between them as fresh, cool, early-morning summer air.
He was staying.
“Guess so,” she said, reaching up to uncoil the bun from the top of her head, feeling the crick in her neck ease and more of her embarrassment fall away as the heavy weight of it came down on her shoulder. She moved, leaning against her headboard to mimic his position. Like this, it was civilized, normal. It might as well be a couch. It was sitting and talking, nothing more.
“It’s kind of funny, to be sick,” she said, once she’d gotten comfortable.
A volley! A normal, conversational volley.
“What’s funny about it?” he returned, and she smiled in relief.
“Well, it’s my first summer back, since Nonna passed. And I only ever used to get sick when I came here in the summers. It was like, the school year would end, and a few days later I’d come. And always, within the first month, I’d get sick.”
Even with the space between them, she could feel something about his body change, become more tense. “Maybe you’re not allergic to the cats. Maybe there’s something in this building, a—”
Nora snorted a laugh. “No, no. It was never one thing. Sometimes it was a cold, or a stomach bug. Two summers in a row I got a bad flu, the worst fevers I ever had.”
“Surprised you have so many good memories here, if that was the pattern.”
She smoothed the comforter, suddenly feeling cautious. Talking about this—it felt like a risk, given how their conversation on poetry night had gone. But he was as good as asking, wasn’t he? It’s what he’d been like on that first morning. Curious about her. Interested in her.
“I never got sick during the school year, not ever,” she said, leaning into that interest, settling into it like it was another cozy bed to climb into. “I got perfect attendance from second grade on. In first grade I broke my arm during a field trip, so I missed half a day for that.”
“You only got half a day for a broken arm?”
She shrugged. “I liked school. But also, my parents were really into their work.” She took a sidelong glance at him. The darkness around them was already changing, or her eyes were already accommodating it, because she could see that he’d tipped his head toward her.
“Yeah? What’d they do?”
“They’re professors. Both in archaeology.”
“Shit, really? Like Indiana Jones?”
She laughed quietly, the sound somehow so intimate. What else could it be, really, to laugh with someone in your bed? It felt like the most secret, private, special thing. It felt like a fever dream. She gave up on thinking there was anything normal or casual about it.
“More boring than Indiana Jones. Anyway, that’s how they met, in graduate school. They work a lot during the school year, teaching their classes, but also writing all these papers and stuff. They’re actually pretty famous.”
“Not Indiana Jones famous.”
“No. Like . . . nerd famous. PBS documentaries famous.”
“Huh,” he said, then paused. “So they didn’t get summers off, or . . . ?”
“They do their field work in the summer. Digs all over the place. They’re on one now, actually.” As they got older, it bothered Nora more, but she didn’t suppose that mattered much. Once her dad had told her he hoped he was lucky enough to die on a dig. Doing what I love, he’d said, and Nora—who’d been twelve at the time—had felt almost breathless with hurt.