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So have I.
CHAPTER12
Madison
o o o
“What about… an omelet?” I wave a couple of eggs I bought from the grocery store this morning, feeling like a mad woman. I’ve been trying to figure out what Leo wants to eat for the last hour — he even rejected some leftover pizza growing cold in my fridge downstairs, and that makes me worried. Leo loves pizza.
I’ve tried to text Roman to see if Leo seemed off this morning, but of course, he hasn’t shown any signs of receiving it. He’s probably flitting from meeting to meeting in full CEO mode. It’s difficult to align that version of him with the one I met on Saturday.
Seeing him out of his natural habitat has my brain all muddled, and I don’t like it.
“Nope,” Leo shakes his head, fixating back on the TV.
I sigh but don’t admit defeat with the eggs just yet.
“Scrambled egg?”
“No.”
“Sunny side up?”
“Naaa’ Madison,” he murmurs, as though he doesn’t even have the energy to speak to me anymore. It’s impossible to tell if he’s just in one of his moods or he isn’t feeling well. He does look a little pale, but he hasn’t complained of any nausea or pain.
“Poached?” I offer, hopeful.
“What’s poached?”
“Yeah, I don’t even know how to poach.” I put the eggs back in their tray and tap the counter, looking around. The bowl is filled with overripe bananas and bruised apples, and while the fridge is well-stocked, I’ve already offered everything in it.
“What about we go get some frozen yogurt?”
He perks up a little at that but remains rooted to the couch with the TV remote in his hand. “I’m not hungry.”
“Well, you have to eat something, kiddo.” I sigh and perch on the couch beside him, running my fingers through his feathery, dark hair. I catch a patch of his forehead and find it burning and clammy, leaving dread rushing through me. “You have a temperature. Do you feel okay?”
“I just want my Dad. When will he come?”
I’m beginning to suspect the answer to my question is no, especially when Leo looks at me through glassy eyes. I text Roman once more:I don’t think Leo’s feeling so good. You should come home.
Like the rest of them, it remains delivered but unopened. Irritation wriggles through me. I imagine Roman sitting at his desk, punching his laptop like he does when he comes home. He should be available when I need him — he’s Leo’s father, for God’s sake.
I point at the clock, which says it’s only just past one. He won’t be home for at least five hours. “You see the big hand?”
Leo covers his eyes with his arms, refusing to look. He isn’t fond of telling the time, but I’m trying to use the anticipation he has for his father’s return as a way of teaching him. “I want Dad now!”
“I know, sweetheart, but he’s working right now. Could you at least drink some water for me?”
“He’s never here!” Leo shouts.
It breaks my heart, and I don’t know what to say. I rub soothing circles along Leo’s back, checking my phone again.
Nothing.
“What if we watch a movie?” I suggest, pulling the remote from his hands.
His bottom lip juts out, wobbling with the promise of a teary outburst. I’m usually good at handling it, but I can’t read Leo at all today — he’s not himself. Maybe all that excitement and melted ice cream at the zoo had an effect on him, or maybe he picked up some icky bug on the playground.
