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Poppy felt vaguely ill. They hadn’t had many visitors since she’d moved in—her parents had friends, both local and back in Schaumburg, but the pandemic had shuttered their social lives and shattered her mom’s life, and by the time Poppy had arrived, those friends had stopped coming around, though at least they still interacted online, and many had contributed to the one anemic crowdfunding campaign Poppy had tried.

And now she was having flashbacks to her own visit, the Christmas trip that had started with joy and ended with shouting and accusations and bitter revelations, which had then led to her loading up a U-Haul and leaving everything she’d ever thought she’d wanted behind.

She knew she was being foolish, but at the same time…

She had only known Rai for a week, and she’d already learned that even years of friendship, of love, of thinking you knew someone better than you knew yourself, didn’t mean there wasn’t something under the surface just waiting for the chance to bite your head off.

“Oh, hello!” Her mother’s voice came from the doorway behind her, and Poppy turned, her queasiness intensifying. “You must be Rai.”

“And you are Poppy’s mother.” Rai stepped around Poppy, taking her mother’s hand and bending over it in his courtly Brazilian greeting, though he did not linger the way he had with Poppy. And she was not going to dissect the flash of relief she felt at that observation.

“Call me Jen,” her mom said in response, smiling, then eyed the towels in Poppy’s hands, her smile fading slightly. “Do we have a leak?”

“No, I just—Rai walked over in the rain. The roof is fine.” She hurried to collect Rai’s socks. The shoes would have to wait a few minutes.

“I am dry now,” he said in a reassuring tone of voice. “Poppy has cared for me.”

“All right.” Her mother’s face cleared, and she stepped back from the doorway. “Come on in.”

Poppy took a detour by the laundry room to toss the towels and socks in the dryer; when she came out, Rai was waiting for her in the hall.

He was peering closely at one of the art prints on the wall, a vintage Cicely Mary Barker print—one of her whimsical flower fairies—and let out a small snort of what she hoped was laughter and not disapproval as she approached.

“Mom likes lots of art,” Poppy said quickly. “She used to buy things at the street fair, Goodwill, Etsy…”

He stepped back quickly. “It is lovely. I was just wondering why they are so small.”

“The pictures?”

He blinked. “Yes, the pictures. There are so many.”

“Mom never has been much for minimalism.” More like a magpie; if it weren’t for the fact that she liked everything neat and clean and arranged in its proper place, her mother might have been a hoarder rather than just an avid collector, something her father had aided and abetted.

It gave her mixed feelings now; the figurines and action figures and prints brought her mother joy, both in and of themselves and as memories, but at the same time, Poppy couldn’t help wishing her dad had put that money into a better insurance policy, or even just savings. “So, um, the bathroom’s right here.”

Rai peeked in. “Ah, the candles.”

“You are a welcome guest,” Poppy said dryly.

“Of course I am. You invited me.”

“Technically, you invited yourself.”

“But you said yes.”

“So I did,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush. She’d blushed more in the past week than she had the whole ten years prior. “The living room’s this way.”

Her mother was standing by the corner étagère, fussing with the trailing stems of her spider plant; she looked up with a smile as Poppy and Rai entered, but it faltered almost immediately. “Poppy, are you all right?” She hurried over and set a hand to Poppy’s cheeks. “You feel warm.”

“She is just pink,” Rai said helpfully.

“I’m fine, Mom.” Poppy took her mother’s hand in both of hers, squeezing it reassuringly. “I don’t have a fever.”

“Are you sure? I can get the thermometer.”

“You don’t need to. I promise I’m fine.” This was not a good start. Poppy turned to Rai. “Can I get you something to drink? We have water, tea, wine…”

“I would like coffee,” Rai said. “I am replenished and not about to die-drate.”

Poppy turned to her mother, wincing at her expression. “Do we have decaf? ”

“I think… Yes. Yes, we do.” Her mother managed a brave smile. “Let me get it started.” She hurried off.

Poppy turned back to Rai. “Did you want to watch a movie?”

“Is all well?” He studied her face. “You are stiff.”

She heaved a deep breath. “Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“What is wrong?”

“Nothing. Just… Nothing.” She gestured at the couch, hoping it would distract him. “I warned you about the sunflowers.”

“It is magnificent. It will not be offended if I sit?”

“Nope.”

They settled on the couch, and when her mom returned, Poppy heaved a sigh of relief.

False alarm. There was no sign of further rumination on her mother’s face, and she seemed calm and relaxed, making friendly small talk and asking Rai questions that he answered with courtesy and laughter.

He had draped himself across his end of the sunflower couch like a sultan, an arm stretched out along the back to toy with the short hair at the nape of Poppy’s neck, which was making her a little twitterpated, but other than some guarded glances, her mom didn’t seem to find anything amiss.

She insisted on serving the coffee—Rai requested cinnamon with a heated glance at Poppy—and chatted and even made a few jokes, and Poppy was starting to think the evening might not be a total disaster, when it all ended in an instant.

She sneezed.

Her mother’s face changed like lightning. “Oh, god. You are sick.”

“I’m not sick,” Poppy said, pitching her voice low and soft. “I’m fine. It was just dust.”

“Are you sure you don’t have a fever? Do you feel dizzy?”

“I’m not sick.”

But her mother was already in front of her, hand on her forehead. “You’re warm. You have a fever. Let me check your pulse.” She grasped Poppy’s wrist.

“I’m not sick, Mom.” Poppy cast a panicked glance at Rai.

“It’s fast,” her mother muttered. “Oh, god. It’s fast. You have palpitations.”

“Her heartbeat is fast,” Rai agreed, leaning forward with a wicked grin on his face. “And her cheeks are very pink.”

Oh, god. He was trying to flirt. “Rai, I think—”

“They are very pink,” her mother gasped.

“I’m not sick.” Poppy stood up. “Mom, I’ll go take a test. We still have tests, right?” She tried to keep her voice calm even though she was despairing inside. It had been such a good day. It had been so good.

“They’re expired,” her mom fretted.

“They extended the dates. Remember? They’re still fine.” Poppy grabbed both of her mom’s hands. They were shaking.

Rai stood as well, his gaze flickering between Poppy and her mother. “What is wrong?”

Her mother pulled away and started to pace, her steps fast and uneven, muttering under her breath, and Poppy gave up. “Rai, I think you need to go.”

“But—”

“Please go.” Poppy managed a smile. “It’s not you.

I… I’ll talk to you later.” She didn’t know how, because they hadn’t exchanged numbers yet, but they’d managed to connect until now without that.

She had to just hope it would work out. And if it didn’t…

Well, it had been nice for a little while. But she had to have priorities.

“Later,” Rai agreed, and then he went down the hall, toward the back door.

Poppy didn’t want to hear the sound of that door closing; she went to her mother, matching her pace. “I’ll go take a test, Mom. I’ll take it right now.”

But her mom was in her own world, caught in the whirlpool of her thoughts.

Poppy gave her shoulders another quick stroke and went off to the bathroom, rummaging in the cabinet for one of their dwindling supply of COVID tests.

They were almost out; she’d have to budget for more.

She hated to use one when she knew it was going to be negative—though she’d likely have to use all that they had left, since her mom was almost certainly going to decide it was a false negative—but if that’s what it took to get her mom back on an even keel, it was a small price to pay.

She hadn’t even gotten to tell Rai her good news, that she’d sold the drawing he’d complimented.

She’d planned on apologizing for being weird when he was complimenting it, telling him he’d been right that it was good.

Possibly asking him to join her for the celebratory scone that now probably wouldn’t exist. Maybe even sharing the drawings of him that she’d been working on, using the poorly lit grocery-store photo as a model.

But she should have known. Rainbows were pretty, but they never lasted. What stuck around was always the rain, and the aftermath of the storm.

She’d learned that lesson well.