Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 320(@200wpm)___ 256(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
I send her pictures back—the growing pile of used tissue boxes in the recycling bin, a dramatic shot of Ashton oozing off the couch, the TV screen glowing in the dark as we watch The Princess Bride together for the first time since we were kids.
HOLLY: Oh, good choice! I love that movie! It’s one of my favorites. We should watch it together sometime when you’re feeling better and can enjoy it more.
LUKE: As you wish.
HOLLY: I see what you did there. And I like it.
LUKE: Good.
By Sunday evening, I’ve received dozens of messages, three terrible jokes (“What do you call a sick bird of prey? An ill eagle!”), and a truly awful meme about the flu that makes me laugh despite feeling like death.
She’s the best. She really is.
My last thought as I sink into sickly dreams?
I can’t wait to thank her in person.
Sunday blurs into Monday. We’re all still sniffling, but Ashton seems to be rounding the corner, complaining less about dying and more about being bored as she takes point on caretaking. Elliot has graduated to sitting upright for short periods. Bran is still staring numbly into the void.
And I’m…holding on, refusing to get worse, but not really getting better.
Holly’s messages continue, a steady stream of support and perfectly timed distraction.
HOLLY: Day 3 of the Ratcliffe Plague. How are we doing?
LUKE: Ashton is improving. The rest of us are still in hell. But hell, like heaven, is temporary. So…
HOLLY: That’s the spirit? I guess? I’m worried you’re becoming darkly philosophical in your season of sick-content.
LUKE: Ha. No, not really. Sorry. I actually find the thought that everything is temporary comforting. Is that strange?
HOLLY: Hmmm…. You know, now that I think about it, no. Not really. It’s a good thing to remember that hell is temporary, so you don’t get depressed when life is sucking butt. But it’s also good to remember that heaven is temporary, so you treasure every second you spend there.
LUKE: Yes. Exactly. I really like you.
HOLLY: Is that the cold medicine talking?
LUKE: No, it’s me. Just me.
HOLLY: I like you, too. And I hope you start to rally soon. I’d love to go caroling together on Wednesday if you feel better. It’s kind of a Silver Bell Falls tradition. The whole town heads over to Reindeer Corners to carol through their downtown. Then, they return the favor the following Wednesday. That probably sounds like a mild form of torture, but I promise it’s fun.
LUKE: Only mild torture. Assuming I’m well, I’d love to go. Just don’t expect me to sing.
HOLLY: Of course, you should sing! I bet you have a lovely voice.
LUKE: That’s a bet you would lose.
HOLLY: We’ll see. Sleep well, Grumps. Sending healing vibes your way.
* * *
By Monday night, I feel a marked improvement. By Tuesday morning, I wake up feeling almost human.
Not entirely human—my body still aches—but human enough to shower, start a load of laundry, and join the others downstairs for an early breakfast.
Thankfully, the rest of the Ratcliffe plague crew seems to be in much better spirits as well.
While Ashton makes omelets to celebrate and Bran starts another pot of coffee, I pop into the living room to shoot Holly an update—Feeling much better this morning and looking forward to caroling tomorrow night if the invitation still stands.
She texts back almost instantly. Of course, it does! Hurray! I’ll text you all the details tomorrow. I’m at the vet’s office, shooting portraits of hamsters in tiny Santa hats and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. I really do love my job!
Smiling, I assure her, Of course, no rush. And that’s probably why you’re so good at it. Have a great day.
She shoots back—
After a beat of hesitation, I send a heart in return, which Elliot—who has appeared behind me without me noticing—proceeds to tease me about as we head back into the kitchen.
“Shut up,” I warn, leading the way. “It’s just an emoji.”
“Just an emoji! Just,” Elliot practically screeches. “Ashton, Luke said the emoji he sent is just an emoji.”
“What!?” Ashton screeches back. “An emoji? I didn’t think you knew how to use emojis, Luke. You never send emojis.”
“Luke’s too dignified for emojis,” Bran says, adding creamer to his fresh cup of coffee. “He disdains an emoji. And I, for one, approve. When I grow up, I’m going to disdain emojis, too.”
“I don’t think he disdains them anymore,” Elliot says, in that smug way of his that’s starting to drive me insane.
“I love emojis,” Ashton says. “I wish there were even more to choose from. I wish they had an emoji for when your wine runs out too soon. And for twerking. And for that moment when Homer backs into the hedge.”
I scowl. “What?”
“You know, Homer and the hedge,” she repeats as if that should explain it. “The meme?”