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Owen and Meg come back down the hall, and my little boy looks miserable. His cheeks have a grayish pallor and his eyes a febrile glow. When he sees me, he throws himself at me and I drop to my haunches to scoop him into my arms. I smother him in kisses and brush sweat-lank hair from his fevered brow.
“Pop, I don’t feel good.”
“I know, baby.” I lift him into my arms. He’s getting too big for this. Owen’s lanky legs dangle past my knees when I hold him now, but I’m going to cling on as long as I can. I glance at Trevor and try to ignore his scowl at my ‘coddling’ our son. He’s only nine, at least for a few more weeks. Of course I’m going to coddle him when he’s sick. Fuck Trevor for not doing the same. I bite back my anger and just say, “Text me when you’re ready to arrange October.”
“Sure. Bye, kids.” Trevor spits out the words like a censure for them not saying it first.
“Bye, Daddy,” Owen mumbles into my neck, clinging to me like he used to when he was my sweet little toddler.
“Bye,” Meg says sullenly, hefting both kids’ bags and following me out the door.
I carry Owen to the car—he’s going to be too big for me to carry him at all soon—and buckle him into his booster seat. Meg tosses the bags in on the other side, then buckles into the front passenger seat. She’s already got her nose buried in her phone, probably texting friends that she’ll be home ahead of schedule.
I rummage for a bag or something in case Owen gets sick again, but I just cleaned everything out of the car. The best I can do is to throw the old blanket I keep in here for emergencies over his lap to contain any potential messes.
“Aim for this if you feel sick on the way home, alright?” I tuck the thin fleece over him and brush my fingers over his feverish brow. My poor little guy just gives me a feeble nod.
I get behind the wheel and try not to worry about just how sick Owen might be.
“How was it?” I ask as I pull out of Trevor’s driveway.
“Eh? Dad was Dad. Do we have to go to his place?” Meg’s shoulders hunch, and I wish I had a different answer to give her.
“I can’t deny him access to you kids.” I give her a tight smile and resolve to ask Saint if Meg can refuse to go. Or if that will be just as bad as when I wanted to renege on Trevor’s court-ordered visitation.
“It’s not like he actually wants to see us.”
Owen moans in the back. “I’m gonna—”
“Aim for the blanket, if you can.” I squeeze the steering wheel as he hurls all over the back seat. Fuck. At least his timing saves me from saying something ill-advised about their father. When I glance in the rearview, it looks like he mostly hit the blanket.
“It’s okay, baby, let it out. We’ll be home in a minute and we can get you cleaned up and into bed,” I soothe.
“Gross.” Meg rolls down her window at the stench of vomit.
Owen starts crying.
“You’re okay, baby. Just hold on a few more minutes.” I keep driving, going as fast as I dare on quiet residential streets in the middle of the night. Cleaning the barf blanket properly will have to wait until tomorrow.
I’m going to have to call in sick for the extra weekend shifts I took since I wasn’t supposed to have the kids. I promised Meg she wouldn’t be my built-in-babysitter and I’m not asking her to care for her brother when he’s this sick. Damn it all. So much for a bit of breathing room on the bills. That’s a problem for later.
I focus on taking care of Owen, giving him store brand Tylenol and Gravol and getting him tucked into bed in clean PJs. I make sure he has a bucket in case he gets sick again and a bottle of generic sports drink to keep him hydrated.
Meg goes to her room, purportedly to sleep, but there’s every chance she’s venting to her friends about the short-lived visit with her father. I need to check in with her properly, but there’s only one of me and I have to focus on the kid who needs me more right now. Some days it seems like all I do is triage disasters.
I hold Owen as he shivers and he clings to me like he used to. Even though he’s sick, I savor this vestige of his childhood. I know from Meg that I’ve only got so much longer when my baby is going to want to snuggle.
Eventually, his fever breaks, and he falls into an exhausted slumber. It’s been a few hours since he last vomited. I collapse into my own bed as dawn is breaking over the horizon. And if I wish I had someone to hold me and whisper soothing words—someone like Saint, with laugh lines and so much authority in every syllable that I can’t help but believe him when he tells me everything will be okay—well, that might as well be a fever dream.
Chapter 3
Saint (September 21st, 2023)
It’squarterpastsixon a Thursday, and I’m getting antsy waiting for the knock on my front door. We’ve been doing this for over two years now. Angel being late is nothing new. There’s a pesky voice at the back of my head that’s flashing warning lights about how invested I am in this. It never ends well when I get too used to a usual hookup.
Expectations and feelings always enter in at some point and I’m just not built for flowers and forevers. Which means I do my best not to show too much affection that might send mixed signals about what I want. But Angel has so much else on their plate, they seem safe to let myself fall into routines with. Safe to care about.
Sometimes I just want a steady partner. Someone like Carl, who isn’t going to push me for more than I can give, only with sex. Angel is the closest I’ve come to finding that since they’re juggling school, work, and being a single parent.
