Roz tests negative for COVID once, then twice, then three times. Even still, she takes a couple days off from the set and self-quarantines, just to be sure. No one else on set gets sick, luckily, making me wonder if I picked it up there, or somewhere else. When at the beginning of the third day, Roz still feels fine, she gives me a call.

"Hi, darling," she coos, "how are you feeling?"

My head is screaming. My throat is on fire. Rain raps against my window, large drops sliding across the pane. My window looks out onto an alleyway, and the red bricks across from me are stained a dark, saturated terracotta color. "Peachy," I rasp.

"Oh, honey, you sound like shit. Did you take anything?"

"Acetaminophen." I feel hot, but also cold, so I tug my light blanket up to my chin and curve up into a ball. "Orange juice." Lots and lots and lots of orange juice, thanks to Daniel, who keeps coming in to check on me and bring me liquids.

"Okay. Well, if you need anything, call me, okay? I'm going back on set today." She pauses. "Do you want me to order you anything to eat?"

"No, thanks." There's this slight copperish tint at the back of my mouth, one that makes me wonder just how raw my throat really is. "I'm all good."

We have communal oranges in the apartment. I don't want to peel any right now, and I feel like the citric acid would burn, but no part of me wants anything to do with any of my usual cereal selections, or with actually cooking something. Daniel will probably bring me something when he's done with work.

"Okay, well...." Her voice trails off. "I guess I'll let you get some sleep. Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Okay." I hang up before she has the chance to, closing my crusty eyes and dropping my phone against my pillow. Maybe it's not the end of the world that I got sick now. I mean, Roz and I are supposed to go to Spain in a little over a month (fuck), so maybe this will keep me from getting sick when we go abroad. Because, yeah, if that were to be anyone's luck, it would be mine.

There's a freshly opened pack of plain blue masks on my bedside table, next to a giant bottle of strawberry hand sanitizer that Daniel had stashed around here somewhere. I haven't gotten out of bed for anything aside from the bathroom. I've spent the past couple days either sleeping, or watching old, shitty reality TV on my laptop. (In other news, justice for Tatu Baby in season 3 of Ink Master.)

I've switched out my nice new silk PJs for old cotton ones from high school: raggedy pants that were always too short for my legs that are now more snug around my hips than I remembered, and a faded tank top from the eighth grade that looks cropped now, but is comfy and doesn't make a spectacle out of my non-bra-covered nips.

My bed is your stereotypical sick bed—it feels sweaty and filthy and completely contaminated, to such an extent that I see why they had to light everything on fire in The Velveteen Rabbit. I'm going to be so relieved when I feel better and can haul everything down to the laundromat a street over.

I open my laptop lid and almost go straight to Peacock. I started rewatching Poker Face last night, because I kept drifting off during and I hate missing crucial info in new shows. But I hesitate, then go check my email instead. My personal one has nothing, but I open up my author email to see a new email from Cassidy.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Second Book Proposal

Hi, Marcie! Just reaching out to let you know that Ilan LOVED the pitches we sent over, and that she's interested in seeing a few of your loglines fleshed out. She was wondering if you might be able to create a loose outline and two chapters for the following pitches, with a mid-July-ish deadline:

The estranged magical sisters,

The rooftop community garden drama book, and

The woman dealing with the toxic ex and family issues (my fav btw)

If you feel up and able to get these pitches in by or before July 14th, then I'll let Ilan know, and we can get those pitches over to her before your pub date.

There is a bit of a time crunch, because normally, St. Puffin's would already have these pitches on-hand for potential acquisition. They're very much in love with you and your writing (as they should), which I think they've clearly demonstrated with their unusual timeline extension. So don't be worried about whether or not they'll like your ideas, but we do need to start getting them some new materials, because they're not normally this patient.

As always, if you have any questions or need anything, reach out to me at any time, and I'll get back to you asap. Also, my associate sent me the unopening video on Daisy Nowak's channel! Absolutely adorable. Can't believe she got it up so quick! So glad to see your book in your hands, and can't wait to see it in the rest of the worlds'!

Best,
Cassidy

I squeeze my eyes shut quickly, rubbing the crust away from them. Fuck. I'm glad I got a headstart on fleshing out a couple of those pitches—I have three shittily-concocted chapters of the magical sisters book already written, and a loose outline, and I also have some plotting done for the community garden book, so that's significantly less work for me, I suppose.

I was hoping Ilan wouldn't request to see more of the family drama book, honestly. I hadn't had any other ideas, and it felt like a very easy, typical lit fic idea to throw out there into the ring. I figured it was so basic that no one would really go for it. It's oddly personal. And 'oddly personal' just isn't my style.

Still, guess I'm stuck now. I'll have to write it.

I fire off a quick email response to Cassidy—Hi, Cassidy! That sounds doable. I have COVID right now, but I'll get to work on those as soon as I'm functioning again—and look back over her original email again. Mid-July. It feels like a fair amount of time, so long as I'm not thinking about how long it really takes to write a book. Not just the first couple chapters, but an outline.

I'm not someone who has much of a plan in real life, and it really shows through in my writing. I've never been a major plotter. I like thinking about how events would impact different kinds of people, and shape my characters around the premise. Then, I shape the rest of the events around my protagonists, until I have fleshed-out characters and meaningful plot beats. It's a lot of mental trial and error, thinking things over and figuring out potential impacts. To some, it might not seem like a lot of work, or even hard, but for me, it's always one of two things: invigorating, or soul-destroying.

These next couple months might be a bit difficult.

Still, I tell myself, it's not that bad. You've written six chapters in under a week before. You can do this. It's just hard to think about, because you're sick.

Yeah. That's it.

I groan and stack my pillows up behind me, laying back till my shoulders scrunch forward and my neck is at an odd, albeit comfortable, angle. I bend my knees and rest my buzzing laptop against my thighs. Its yellow-tinged screen stares at me, a light that feels so alien when compared to the cool natural light coming in through my window. The summer rain has cast a greyish tinge on the sky outside, but honestly, it's soothing.

Closing out of my email, I open up Spotify and put my liked songs on shuffle. I'll go through and add them to appropriate book playlists as I go along, I decide. If I'm going to be cooped up in bed with nothing to do and little energy, I might as well try to be productive.

I look back through what I'd written about the sisters with magic. I went for loose Wizards of Waverly Place rules, where only one of the girls was allowed to keep their childhood magic, because they were twins. One of them spent her whole childhood letting her magic run wild and harm others, because she was the younger twin and was told that, no matter what, the oldest sister would be receiving their magic. I think I want to include some kind of pseudo-magic discrimination, maybe? Something about "not diluting power," and a hidden magical culture that sees twins as travesties.

Chapter one follows the younger sister as an adult noting all the ways her sister would use magic. I read through what I have, and it's fine, but it doesn't make sense. Not until I open up a new document and label it "MAGIC SISTERS OUTLINE" and begin working. Then, everything comes together: the twins' birth order was mistaken, and now, the perfect "older" twin has no magic and lives on the fringes of her community, and the rebellious "younger" twin wants nothing to do with her magic, her family, or her sister.

I fall asleep in the middle of outlining, then wake up bleary-eyed and get right back to it. The non-magical sister, Ophelia, struggles as she has an affair with her now-married high school boyfriend, a magic user she thought she'd marry and was dumped by as soon as her sister ended up with their magic. The magical sister, Iris, becomes obsessed with healing wounded pigeons around the city, builds non-permitted roosts on the top of her building and begins to contend with what's really evil: her family, her magic, or their traditions.

I begin to lose the plot towards the end, though. Do the sisters reconnect? Does Iris try to give up her magic? Or is it an unhappy ending? I could always kill Ophelia, I guess—would it be poetic for her to drown, or would it be tacky? But would Iris save her with her magic? Could she? What are the limits of this magic system? And, if they shared the magic once, are they able to do it again, or is it forever sealed away inside one of them?

After around an hour, I fall asleep again. When I wake up, my computer has died on my lap, and my throat is so hoarse that I feel like I swallowed fire.

So, I plug in my laptop, mask up, put on some hand sanitizer, and make my way out to the living room. I know what I must look like right now—bedraggled, greasy, sad—but at least I'm getting up. I'm in the middle of grabbing a jug of drinking water from on top of the fridge when I hear the door open behind me.

I glance back and croak, "Hey, Kirby."

"Hey." He's frowning slightly. His expression is cool. "How are you feeling?"

"Like total shit," I say, adjusting my mask over my nose. "But, alive."

"Mm." He adjusts the sleeves of his dark blue Arcadian Wild crewneck. "Just so you know, Daniel is pretty upset with you."

"What?" Something sears through my mind—panic, fear, worry. "What happened? Did I do something?"

"His birthday," he says. "You completely forgot his birthday."

Behind the mask, I've gone slack-jawed. Because, fuck, he's right. I forgot Daniel's birthday.

"I know you're sick," Kirby continues, "but come on. He's been doing a lot for you, and you can't even wish him a happy birthday?"

"I'm sorry." My headache resurges. I feel faint. "I completely forgot what day it was." Also, in my head, Saturday stuck out as his birthday. Because he's going out tonight, I realize, that's why.

Kirby shakes his head. "Don't apologize to me. Just make sure you apologize to him."

"I will," I promise.

"He's pretty upset."

My stomach twists. "I'm sorry."

"Just don't do it again." Kirby's frown lines deepen. "You've been a lot better about things like this, Marcie, and I know that COVID brain fog is a bitch, but you really need to get your head out of your ass."

"I'm sorry."

"Even Gin—" He stops himself.

"Even ... Gina?" I venture.

His frown dissipates slightly. "Sorry. It's ... Gina also has COVID right now, and she managed to remember, when Daniel isn't the one basically taking care of her. It's just a bit frustrating. Sorry."

"Gina." I swallow. It burns. "Right."

His expression sours. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad or compare you guys or anything. We barely talk anymore—she just reached out to him to wish him a happy birthday. That's all. It's just, even she remembered to do it."

"Yeah." I try to swallow again. My mouth is so dry, I have nothing to swallow. "I understand."

I feel like it's more complicated than that, though. Gina isn't a bad person, but there's something in my gut that says she wasn't wishing Daniel a happy birthday just to be nice. There's this seedy little voice in me that screams that she had altruistic motives, that she wants to look better than me, or at least not worse; that she wants to make Daniel and Kirby think that she's a better friend, better person, someone who cares about them more. She can't let my friends just be my friends. She has to take them. Has to be their Best Friend.

Mouth in a taut line, I reach for a dark pink glass from the cupboard and try to control my breathing behind the mask. Tears brim at the corners of my eyes. This is fucking stupid. I shouldn't be getting upset like this. I should feel bad about forgetting Daniel's birthday, about being a bad friend once more.

"I'm sorry," Kirby says again, softer. "I shouldn't have—seriously. It–it's not a big deal."

"No, it is," I say, staring at the glass as I fill it near to the rim. "It's a big deal." I forgot to get him a present, I realize. I'll have to go order once off Amazon and plead brain fog and sickness until it arrives, then give it to Daniel the second I feel better enough to "remember."

That's fucking horrible. I feel so bad.

"So, I'm, um, gonna go back to bed," I say, grabbing my class and walking as fast as I'm able past Kirby. He just watches me go—watches me shut the door, and doesn't say a word.