15. Lynne （Now）
Lynne (Now)
Lynne woke refreshed from the best night of sleep she’d had in weeks. Leo had clearly woken before her, as coffees and their usual orders in to-go foam containers were sitting on the kitchen counter waiting for her.
“Aww, Leo. You didn’t have to do this.” She popped open the container, grabbed a plastic fork, and wrapped her mouth around a bite of extra-crispy hash browns.
He was wiping down the counter where she’d prepared their popcorn last night.
He glanced over his shoulder and flashed his dimples.
It surprised her how seamlessly he moved around her kitchen now, like he belonged, like he’d always lived there.
He brushed her shoulder as he handed her a fresh mug with cream lining the bottom, and Lynne felt her pulse kick up.
“I told Minka to hold the cream so you could add yours whenever you woke up. Is the omelet good?”
“Perfect. Like it just got dropped off at our corner booth.”
Our. Us. We. Those were words Lynne hadn’t used in a long time with someone, especially not Leo. But they were starting to grow on her.
Fred wove around each of their ankles and purred. “You know, he still hasn’t demanded to go out since we got here.”
“It’s probably Mama and the kittens. He’s being protective.”
“I think he might like your place better than mine. Right, Fred?”
“Don’t go getting any ideas, Fred.” But Lynne stopped herself there. She didn’t know why she’d blurted that, like she was ready to kick them out when it was the farthest thing from her mind. She liked him here. Them here. So she softened her voice. “Rent’s due here, too, buddy. Just like at Dad’s.”
“Yeah, Fred. Purrs don’t count as payment at Lynne’s.”
Fred just circled and head-butted their shins like they’d told him second breakfast was on its way.
“Let’s do another video of the litter when we’re done here,” Lynne suggested. “Before the day gets away from us both. I’ll post it. Just want to start planting the seed about adoption, now that we’re all back on track.”
Leo agreed and went to freshen up after his last sip of coffee, only to come back out looking as effortlessly hot as he always did. So annoying.
Lynne met him in the guest bedroom, where he was waiting with the scale, when she was done. “Let’s show them how to weigh the kittens,” he suggested.
They went from wiggliest to calmest, making video snippets of each.
Leo held the scale and Lynne narrated as they jotted down numbers on a notepad near the dresser, just as Nina had taught them.
But they had to retake Maple and Harvest’s clips because they were laughing too hard.
Maple would growl like a tiny, furry tiger at the camera lens every time they picked her up. Harvest farted—loudly—more than once.
Then just as Lynne posted the tutorial to O’Donnell’s, Leo’s expression changed. She rested her head on his shoulder as he replayed their clip.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He stood and walked back over to the notepad and examined it. “Did you weigh them last night before bed?”
Lynne thought. “Shit. No. Did you?”
Leo shook his head. “No. I guess we might’ve enjoyed our first night off of feeding a little too much. Look.” Lynne stood and Leo pointed to the line with all of Twig’s numbers. “Twig hasn’t gained any weight. In fact, he’s lost some.” He was right. Twig was down almost two grams.
“The one before, that’s my handwriting. Maybe I misread his last weigh-in?”
“I doubt it. He’s going up, up, up, even if it’s just a little compared to the rest. But not in the last 24 hours. And, here.”
He lifted his phone and paused their video so Lynne could see what he was seeing. But she didn’t have to watch. The comments were already rolling in.
Omg that little one in the corner looks so sleepy.
Is the fifth baby okay?
That smallest—Twig?—seems off to the side. I used to foster. Keep an eye on that.
“Let me try something,” Lynne offered.
She picked up the sleepy, fuzzy brown and white runt and placed him near Mama’s belly. Mama’s gaze flitted between the two of them and Twig as he latched on weakly then fell asleep mid-feed. Mama nudged at his forehead instead of protectively curling him into her like she did with the others.
Lynne picked him up. His body didn’t feel cold. But it felt cooler than the others. He stretched and settled into her palm.
Her eyes started welling up, her thoughts snowballing. It felt as if everyone could see how inept she was at this. Every commenter. Every stranger. Everyone but her.
“I should’ve weighed him last night,” she whispered. “I should’ve paid more attention.”
“It’s not your fault, Lynne. He was fine before we watched TV. I checked.”
She shook her head. “Mama was right to not trust me.”
“It’s not your fault,” he repeated. “Twig’s a fighter. We’ll figure this out.” He wrapped her and Twig both in his arms.
By mid-afternoon, she could feel the anxiety building in her blood.
Twig was still lagging, but not despite their best efforts.
Every hour had brought a new creative idea.
Position Twig at the best nipple Mama could offer.
Swap him in more often during feedings. They even tried a supplemental bottle, in the hopes they could just bottle-feed until he made it through whatever this was, only to find Twig was uninterested and unable to latch on.
Leo tried to take over, tried to ease her mind.
But even when she disappeared from the guest room to answer a work email or prep something for O’Donnell’s, her heart and nervous head kept pulling her back.
It felt like checking a pot on the stove every thirty seconds, terrified she’d look away the one moment it boiled over.
“I think this is bigger than us,” Lynne finally admitted aloud.
“Call Nina?” Leo suggested. “Just to ask?”
She nodded in agreement.
It felt like her phone rang forever before Nina picked up. “Hey, Nina. It’s Lynne again. I don’t want to be dramatic or waste your time, but…”
Leo paced as she reported everything they’d witnessed and tried.
The slowly declining weight, Twig’s cooler body temperature, weak feeding, and lack of stool or urine.
At first, Nina hummed in agreement, assuring her sometimes things happened.
But the more details Lynne gave, the shorter and firmer Nina’s replies became.
Lynne tried to keep her face as neutral as possible when she noticed Nina’s tone change.
“Okay, this is beyond normal runt lag,” she finally said. “I’m calling Dr. Hart.”
“Who?”
“The only vet I know who might be willing to drive out to Autumn Ridge tonight. This needs intervention. No promises—but I’m calling.”
She advised they keep Twig as warm as possible while they waited for a text from either Dr. Hart to say he’d arrived or Nina, saying no one was coming.
Lynne hung up the phone. A chill ran up her spine and she shivered.
Leo was still hanging nearby on the half-conversation he overheard, clearly just as stressed as she was.
She relayed what Nina said and watched as his expression grew as serious as hers.
She was relieved but also afraid. If a vet was needed tonight, this was serious.
She could see Leo already mentally rearranging his evening, his week, ready to stay as long as it took.
And suddenly she was so happy to have him still here, so glad he didn’t go back home the first chance he got.
“It’ll be okay,” he said, taking her shaking hand in his.
They both went to the guest bedroom to hover around Twig, fuss with the heating pad, watch the clock. Lynne’s thumb traced idle circles over Twig’s fur as she counted breaths and listened for her phone, trying to believe Leo’s “It’ll be okay” more than she believed her own fear.