The Write Off: An Enemies To Lovers Romantic Comedy (Love In 2C Book 3)

Chapter 8

Logan

“Shit!” Travis shouts as he backs away from us. He jumps off the couch and books it down the hall.

“Language,” I warn, but seeing as “shit” was the first word that came to my mind, I don’t give him too much grief for it.

“Sorry, Uncle Lo–” Her words get cut off by another violent gag as she empties the rest of her stomach on me.

“It’s okay. This is…fine,” I reassure her, brushing the bangs out of her eyes. Her forehead glistens with perspiration and her eyes are glassy. “Travis, please grab a waste basket from the guest room.” He must have already been on his way, because he’s at my side with the white plastic bin before I finish my request. He settles it in his sister’s lap and then takes the mug of orange juice I’m still holding, setting it on the coffee table.

“You okay, Anna?” Travis looks a little pale himself. I can’t tell if he’s under the weather too or if it’s just concern for his sister.

“Yeah.” She takes a few deep breaths as she lays her head on the rim of the waste basket. When she looks up at me, her sea-blue eyes fill with tears and her lip wobbles. “I’m sorry I ruined your fancy clothes.”

I place my hand on her forehead, as one does in this type of situation. It’s warm. Very warm. Admittedly, I don’t know that much about small humans, but I don’t think they’re supposed to be this warm.

“Don’t apologize. Your stomach contracted involuntarily.” Noting the confused look on her small face I add, “There wasn’t anything you could have done to stop it. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah,” Travis pipes up. “And it was a really ugly tie. You did him a favor. He should buy you a present.”

God. This kid isn’t pulling any punches today. The dig makes the corners of Anna’s mouth curve ever so slightly. I pretend to take offense to it, which makes her smile grow.

“I’m going to go get changed. Hopefully whatever I pick will be more suitable for your tastes.”

I walk down the short halfway to the main bathroom that also serves as my laundry room. I need to get this shirt off me before I’m the one throwing up. The smell is what gets me. I fed both kids mac and cheese not two hours ago and let’s just say it looked a lot better then. I unbutton and carefully peel off my linen shirt, grateful I don’t have to pull the damned thing over my head.

I throw the shirt into the washing machine, strip out of my pants and add them followed by the detergent. After starting the cycle, I grab a hand towel from the bathroom closet and use warm water and soap to clean my chest, neck and arms. I’ll take a shower after I get the kids set up at my parents’ place.

I walk across the hall to the master bedroom, drying myself off with a towel as I go. This is a newer condo, with high ceilings and a huge walk-in closet. I grab an old Celtics t-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants from one of the built in drawers. Pulling them on quickly, I rush back to the living room to check on my patient.

Make that patients.

Anna is lying down again. Her tiny body is facing the TV even though her eyes are closed. Her bangs appear to be matted to her forehead with sweat.

Her brother doesn’t look much better. He’s grown paler in the five minutes since I left them. Sitting up on the couch, he’s leaning forward, supporting himself with his elbow on his knees. When he looks up at me, his expression conveys pure misery.

“Do you need your own waste basket?”

He says nothing, but nods his head once in response. I hustle down the hall and grab the one from my room, then hightail it back to him. When I hand it to him, he accepts it gratefully.

“‘If you’re going to spew, spew into this,’” I tell him, awkwardly tussling his light brown hair. Judging by the way his eyebrows furrow in confusion, it appears that the Wayne’s World reference has gone over his head. “Do you know if your mom packed a thermometer in your overnight bag?”

I find it in the side pocket of Anna’s purple carry-on suitcase. It’s sealed in a plastic bag with Band-Aids and a bottle of chewable acetaminophen.

When I return to the living room, Anna looks like she’s rallied, a bit. Her eyes are open and she’s watching television again. I take her temperature first, putting the thermometer in her right ear and pressing the button. When it beeps, I look at the screen.

103.6 degrees. That seems high.

I go to her brother next, who takes the thermometer from me and inserts it in his own ear. After the beep, he shows me the reading.

102.3 degrees.

A quick Google search informs me that these are higher than normal for children. I know when I’m out of my depth; it’s time to consult a professional. I grab my phone and send their mom a quick text.

Me:Hey Shannon. Please call me at your earliest convenience.

Before I can even set my phone down, it starts to ring.

“What’s wrong? Is everyone okay?” Shannon is an Emergency Room nurse and doesn’t usually respond to messages so quickly. I must have caught her taking a rare break.

“Everyone is fine,” I answer, hurriedly. “But Anna got sick and both kids are running fevers.” I give her a detailed play-by-play of the last ten minutes. She doesn’t seem overly concerned about the fevers. Apparently there is a stomach virus going around. I’m given instructions on how much Tylenol to give each child to try to bring their temperatures down.

“We’re really short staffed today. I won’t be able to get out of here until at least eight o’clock. I know your mom was planning to take them, but…”

She doesn’t bother to finish the sentence, but she doesn’t need to. Everything happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to process the implications of the kids being ill. There is no way my parents will take them.

“They can hang out here for as long as you need,” I say, meaning it.

“Are you sure? You’ve had them all day.”

“Of course I’m sure. Besides, I’m not even sure they could leave if they tried. They might be permanently attached to my sofa.” Travis rolls his eyes at my lame attempt at a joke, but Anna giggles. “I’ll let mother know about the change in plans.”

We talk for another minute and I promise to update her if there is any more vomiting or their fevers get worse. I end the call and give the kids their medicine right away.

“It looks like you’re stuck with me tonight,” I tell them. They both brighten.

“We don’t have to go to Grandma’s?” My niece looks so happy, you’d never know she’d just expelled her lunch all over me. It’s sad, really. They’d rather be sick than spend time with their grandparents, but I honestly can’t blame them.

“Don’t you have to work?” Travis asks. He’s lying down now stretched out on his side of the couch, his feet reaching the back of his sister’s legs.

Shit. Rilla.

I immediately pull up my phone to text her. “It’s fine. I’ll catch up on work tomorrow. Tonight, we’ll lay low.” And attempt to keep the food we’re digesting in our stomachs where it belongs. “We could rent that superhero movie you’ve been talking about? Crossing The Universe?”

“Across the Spider-Verse!” They yell in unison, as if that sentence makes sense.

I stare at the phone in my hands trying to formulate a sincere apology to Rilla. I dislike corresponding through text and emails. I was taught to always keep my messages clear and professional to avoid any kind of miscommunication.

Me: Rilla, due to unforeseen circumstances, I regret to inform you that I will not be able to meet with you this evening as previously agreed upon. I apologize for any inconvenience that this causes. Please let me know your availability and we will reschedule as soon as possible. Best, Logan

As my thumbs are typing the last few letters of my text, an incoming call banner appears at the top of my screen and my shoulders stiffen as if bracing for some kind of impending impact.

“Hello, Mother.” I leave the kids to their lounging and walk to the kitchen for more privacy.

“Logan, I’m calling to ensure that you’ll be dropping off the children promptly at six o’clock. Your father has made dinner reservations at The Club for seven and you know how we both abhor lateness.”

I manage to refrain from reminding her that the children go to bed at eight p.m. “I was just about to call you, Mother. Travis and Anna are a bit under the weather today.”

Her silence speaks volumes. It fills the air, somehow drowning out the cartoon that’s still playing on the television. My mother is not affectionate in idyllic circumstances.

“What do you mean ‘under the weather?’”

I sigh. “They have some sort of stomach virus.” I register her gasp, but continue to talk over it. “I’m sure they’ll both feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

“You know they contracted it at that sorry excuse for a school. If they went to Brownings, this wouldn’t be happening.”

I’m quite certain viruses don’t care how much property taxes people pay, but I keep this thought to myself. I also don’t mention that I occasionally got sick while attending that school. When my brother and I were ill during childhood, we were confined to our rooms until we were better.

“Well, they obviously can’t come here. I’m not risking whatever germs they have aggravating your father’s condition.” My father has extremely high blood pressure. He’s also a complete asshole, although, to the best of my knowledge, that’s still untreatable.

“Of course, Mother. They’ll stay here until Shannon can pick them up.”

“Come to think of it, it’s likely her fault they’re ill. The way that woman is always choosing to hang around hospitals instead of taking care of my grandchildren…”

“That woman is their mother. And she’s not hanging around hospitals, she works at one.” The irony of my mother criticizing Shannon’s parenting in the same breath as refusing to care for Travis and Anna is not lost on me. “I’m sorry, Mother. I hope you and father have a pleasant evening.”

“We’ll attempt to. Although it’s very inconvenient to have our plans altered on such short notice. Why don’t you join us instead? We haven’t seen you since Christmas.”

Seriously?

“Because I’ll be taking care of the children, Mother.”

“Right. Don’t get too close to them, Logan. Children are practically walking petri dishes.” With that lame attempt of demonstrating concern, she ends the call. I breathe a deep sigh of relief and rejoin the only blood relatives I actually like.

The next few hours are fairly uneventful. I rent the animated Spider-Man movie the children requested. What follows is two hours of CGI excellence and utter nonsense. I have no idea what’s happening on the screen. Apparently, this is the second movie and I’m unfamiliar with every character except Peter Parker. But the kids enjoy it. Once their fevers break, they both snack on crackers while they try to help me follow the story.

The movie finishes just after seven and both children have fallen asleep. Anna is snuggled into my side, her breaths slow and deep. Not wanting to disturb her, I use my Apple watch to text Shannon that they should just stay here for the night. They’re both clearly exhausted and it doesn’t make sense for her to wake them up and take them out in the cold. She reluctantly agrees.

I’m able to reach the dog-eared paperback on my end table without waking Anna and flip to where I left off. It’s a mystery novel I’ve read twice already. Every time I read it, I notice something I missed before. The slowly building tension, the red herrings, and the gratifying conclusion; It’s a perfect example of master storytelling.

I look at my watch when I notice that my eyelids are getting heavier. It’s after eleven and neither kid has even stirred. Carefully I stand, trying my best not to disturb either of them. I usually do a full body weightlifting routine on Saturdays and find myself stiff from spending so much of my day on the couch. I carry Anna to the guest room, her limp little body feeling heavy in my arms. She doesn’t rouse when I put her on the bed and pull the blanket over her, tucking her in with her stuffed rabbit, Rumplebunkins. I decide to let Travis stay on the couch. He prefers it to the air mattress, anyway. I grab an extra blanket and drape it over his sleeping form before turning out the lights.

I fall into my own bed, exhausted, and reach for my phone. I open my messages, irritated that I didn’t get a response from Rilla.

I freeze as I immediately realize why she didn’t reply. The text that I carefully typed earlier stares up at me in draft form. I never hit send.