The corner of my notebook peeks out from inside my bag, and I pull it open to the page with my unfinished song, hoping for a distraction while I wait for the medicine to take effect. No lyrics materialize—I’m too preoccupied with watching the rise and fall of Logan’s chest. Songwriting for my kids will have to wait.
Every fifteen minutes I recheck his temperature, watching the numbers like they’re lottery results. On the third check, it’s down to 102.3 and the relief that arises in me is enormous, to say the least.
Logan’s phone keeps buzzing on the nightstand like an angry hornet, but I ignore it. Whatever crisis awaits him in the world of fame can wait until he’s conscious enough to care.
But after the fifth notification or so, my eyes can’t help drifting to the screen, which lights up with an ominous alert about . . . a contract breach?
The realization hits me square between the eyes—I know so little about him. He’s not the same boy who dumped glue in my hair and left Maplewood Springs six years ago. What storms rage in his personal life, he’s weathering them all by himself. I wish I knew more about him, but if it was something he wanted me to know, surely, he would’ve mentioned it.
Just then, my own phone rings with a message from Mom:Where are you I need you here
Oh crap! The festival setup. I completely forgot, swept up in my Florence Nightingale routine.
My fingers fly across the keyboard, typing what I hope is an acceptable excuse.
“Logan’s sick. Taking care of him. Will be late”
Given the sad state of his fridge and cupboards—a bachelor wasteland that would make nutritionists weep—I should probably ensure he has something to eat before I leave.
His temperature has dropped to 99.5, which feels like a medical miracle. I return home to grab ingredients: noodles, broth, carrots, chicken, celery, and all the spices I can carry.
Back at Logan’s, I put a pot on the stove and let the smell of garlic and simmering herbs fill the kitchen, turning the stale air into something that smells more homely.
When the soup is ready—golden and steaming with promise—I bring it to him in a bowl, balancing it carefully as I sit at the edge of his bed and nudge his shoulder.
He opens his eyes, and the smile that spreads across his face ignites a fire in my chest. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask, trying to sound casual and not like someone who’s mesmerized by his sleepy face.
“Better. The headache’s gone.”
“Here,” I say, spooning a bit of the chicken noodle soup and blowing on it. “You need strength to recover.”
Logan slowly rises, and I extend my arm to place his pillow behind his back, trying not to notice how the movement brings us briefly face-to-face. His beautiful blue eyes make me swallow saliva I don’t have.
“Open,” I command, holding the spoon to his full lips.
He obediently takes the bite, swallows, and smirks. “Thanks, Mom.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “You’re lucky I don’t dump this on your head. You should’ve told me you don’t feel good.”
He smiles weakly before slurping down another spoonful. “I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well,” I say, feeding him another small portion, “you did exactly that by not saying anything. Just promise me you’ll be more forthcoming next time.”
Logan nods with puppy-like contrition, and after he’s finished eating, I tuck him back in and retreat to the kitchen, where I wash the bowl in the sink, listening to the quiet house settling around me. Then I walk back to Logan’s room, where he lies with eyes half-closed.
“Hey,” I whisper. “I have to go help my mom with the spring festival setup. I’ll come back later, okay?”
I turn to leave, but his fingers clamp gently around my wrist, warm and surprisingly strong for someone who was practically comatose an hour ago.
“Don’t go,” he rasps. “Please.”
His eyes search mine—unsteady, fevered, but something else there too that I recognize.
My heart softens and folds at the yearning in his eyes. How could I leave him in this state? Before I know it, I’m sitting back down.
“I’ll stay,” I say quietly. “But only until you fall asleep.”
