Chapter 30
Stella:
My phone buzzed as I sat in the uncomfortable chair beside Noah's hospital bed, my laptop open but my eyes unfocused on the screen.
Zoe: Go home. Shower. Eat real food. He's not going anywhere and the nurses have your number.
I glanced at Noah. He was awake now, scrolling through his phone with his free hand, the IV line taped to his other arm. The color had fully returned to his face, and aside from looking tired, he seemed almost normal.
Me: Fine. A few hours.
Zoe: Take good care of yourself.
Me: Okay, I'll pick something up.
"You're leaving?" Noah looked up from his phone.
"Just for a bit. I need to eat something that isn't vending machine food."
"Fair." He set his phone down. "Bring me back something good? Hospital food is depressing."
"The doctor said you need to stick to bland foods for the next few days."
"So... not the cafeteria burger."
"Definitely not the cafeteria burger."
He sighed dramatically. "Fine. Surprise me."
---
I left the hospital and drove to Target first, wandering the men's section. I grabbed sweatpants, a few t-shirts, and a hoodie in sizes that seemed reasonable, paid quickly, and left.
Whole Foods was my next stop. I stood in the produce section with my phone out, googling "easy chicken soup recipe".
The recipe promised it was foolproof. Chicken, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, thyme, egg noodles. Simple enough.
I loaded everything into my cart, double-checking with Zoe that Noah didn't have any other allergies besides peanuts and tree nuts, and headed to checkout.
---
My apartment felt too quiet. I set the grocery bags on the counter and stared at them for a moment before pulling out my phone.
Me: I'm making soup. Is that bland enough?
Noah: You're cooking?
Me: Why does everyone say it like that?
Noah: Because Zoe told me you once set off the smoke alarm making toast.
Me: The toaster was broken.
Noah: Sure it was. What kind of soup?
Me: Chicken.
Noah: Homemade?
Me: Yes, homemade. Don't sound so shocked.
Noah: I'm not shocked. I'm impressed.
Me: Don't be impressed yet. I haven't started.
Noah: Need help?
Me: You're in a hospital bed.
Noah: I have FaceTime.
I looked at the chicken sitting in its package on the counter, then at the pile of vegetables I had no idea how to properly cut.
Me: Fine. Call me.
My phone rang thirty seconds later.
"Okay," Noah said when the video connected, and I could see him propped up against pillows. "Show me what you're working with."
I flipped the camera to show the counter. "Chicken. Vegetables. Vague instructions from the internet."
"That's a good start. First, take the chicken out of the package and put it straight in your biggest pot."
I wrestled with the packaging, trying not to touch the raw chicken more than necessary, and finally got it into the pot.
"Good. Now the vegetables. Let's start with the onion."
"I know how to cut an onion."
"Do you?"
"Yes." I picked up the knife and cut the onion in half. Within seconds, my eyes were streaming. "Oh my god."
"You're supposed to cut through the root, not across it."
"The recipe didn't specify that."
"It's implied." I could hear the smile in his voice. "Here, let me show you."
He demonstrated with his hands, walking me through the proper technique, and I tried again. This time it actually worked.
"Better?" he asked.
"Better."
We continued like that, Noah patiently explaining each step while I chopped carrots and celery, minced garlic, and tried not to cut myself. His voice was steady and calm, almost soothing, and I found myself relaxing into the rhythm of it.
"Now add everything to the pot with the chicken and cover it with water. About an inch over everything."
I followed his instructions, then turned on the burner.
"High heat until it boils, then reduce to low and let it simmer. Should take about forty-five minutes."
I set a timer and leaned against the counter, suddenly aware of how domestic this felt. Me in my kitchen, him on a screen, talking me through a recipe like we'd done this a hundred times before.
We stayed on the line as the soup simmered, the comfortable silence occasionally broken by quiet conversation. Noah told me about the nurse who kept checking if he needed anything, and I told him about the Target cashier who'd given me a knowing look when I bought men's sweatpants.
We talked about nothing important—his roommates' reaction when they heard about the allergic reaction, my upcoming lecture on cognitive biases, the terrible hospital TV options.
The kitchen filled with the smell of chicken and vegetables, warm and comforting.
About half an hour in, Noah shifted on the screen. "So," he said. "Your neighbors."
I picked up my phone from where I'd propped it against the backsplash. "What about them?"
"You mentioned the apartment across from you is empty?"
"Has been for months. Why?"
"Just thinking—when I'm discharged tomorrow, if I'm staying at your place, will it be weird if people see me?"
"No one's going to see you. Everyone keeps to themselves here."
"But if they did—"
"They won't." I stirred the soup, watching the vegetables bob in the golden broth. "And even if they did, you're my friend's brother recovering from an allergic reaction. It's completely reasonable."
"Right. Reasonable."
"What's that tone?"
"No tone. Just making sure you're okay with it."
"I'm fine with it." I set down the spoon. "Stop worrying."
"I'm not worrying." But he was smiling. "Just don't want to make things more complicated than they already are."
I wanted to argue, but the timer went off.
"Soup time," Noah said. "Take out the chicken and shred it, then add it back with the noodles. Ten more minutes."
I followed his instructions, using two forks to pull the chicken apart, then added it back to the pot with the egg noodles.
"How does it look?" Noah asked.
"Like soup."
"That's a good sign."
Ten minutes later, I ladled some into a bowl and tasted it carefully. It was simple, nothing fancy, but it was good. Really good.
"Well?" Noah prompted.
"It's edible."
"High praise from Dr. Morrison."
"It's actually pretty good." I filled a container for him. "I'll bring this when I come back."
"You don't have to come back tonight. I'm fine."
"I know. But I want to."
There was a pause.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll see you soon."
---
I packed the soup into a thermal container, grabbed the bag of clothes from Target, and headed back to the hospital.
He was sitting up when I entered, looking significantly more alert than earlier.
"You brought it." He eyed the container.
"I brought it." I set it on the tray table and pulled out the clothes. "And these. Zoe said hospital gowns are the worst."
"She's not wrong." He opened the container and breathed in. "This smells amazing."
"Don't get too excited. It's my first attempt."