Chapter 15
Iknock and knock, but Logan’s house remains silent as a library after hours. Is he even home? Maybe he’s ignoring me. Or sleeping with noise-canceling headphones. Or hiding in a secret celebrity panic room I don’t know about.
I hesitate for half a second before trying the doorknob. It turns with suspicious ease, and the door comes slightly ajar.
I step in. “Logan?” My voice bounces off the walls of his sparsely decorated living room.
Eerily, the house looks like no one lives here. What if he took one look at the news and fled town?
Inching closer to the living room, I spot a bedroom across the hall, bed empty but covers kicked off. Then I see him.
My heart half melts, half seizes with alarm. Logan lies collapsed on the couch, his gray t-shirt ridden halfway up to reveal an unfairly symmetrical strip of abs, his normally beige-toned cheeks flushed crimson, brow glistening with sweat, and his breathing shallow and uneven.
I rush to kneel at his side, sudden panic making my movements clumsy. “Logan?”
He mumbles something unintelligible.
I press my palm to his forehead. Holy blazing inferno. He’s burning up.
“Come on,” I say, looping his arm over my shoulder and bracing myself for the deadweight of a six-foot-two pop star. “Let’s get you to bed.”
His skin is hot and clammy against mine, radiating heat like asphalt in July. He’s barely upright as we shuffle down the hallway toward his room, his feet dragging with each step.
“Maisie?” he mutters, voice gravelly and distant.
“Don’t talk,” I say, gentleness replacing the panic in my voice. “You need to rest.”
He stumbles once—a dramatic lurch that nearly sends us both careening into the wooden floor—but I fight with everything I’ve got to keep us vertical.
How can someone so lean be as heavy as a bag of cement?
Through sheer determination, we make it to his bedroom in one piece.
I ease him down onto the mattress before pulling the comforter over him. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
When no answer comes except labored breathing, I spring into action.
In the kitchen, I fling open the cupboards desperately, only to discover three nearly empty shelves and a half-eaten bag of barbecue potato chips mocking me with their inadequacy.
The next one reveals four packs of cookies and instant noodles.
There’s not a single bottle of medicine in sight—not even the basic pain relievers most normally functioning adults keep on hand.
I pull open the fridge: water, Coca-Cola, one bottle of mustard standing sentinel in this otherwise barren arctic wasteland. Is that it? The sad refrigerator of a man who apparently subsists on delivery and hopes.
“How are you even alive?” I mutter to the fluorescent-lit void before slamming it shut.
I hurry back home and rummage through my work bag. Liquid acetaminophen, which I keep handy for my students’ inevitable playground mishaps. Thermometer. Washcloth. I grab everything in sight and race back next door, feeling like I’m starring in my own medical drama.
Once at his bedside again, I check his temperature with the steady hand of someone who’s dealt with dozens of flu-ridden six-year-olds.
103.5 degrees.
Not good. He must’ve caught this while shivering his way to get my blanket at the hot spring. This is all my fault. Guilt coils in my stomach like a snake.
I pour twenty milliliters of medicine into the tiny cup that came with the bottle and prop him up gently so he can drink it, then I lay him back down as he coughs a little.
If only I hadn’t taken him to the hot spring, he wouldn’t have caught a cold. My chest squeezes as I watch him take shallow, rapid breaths. We have to bring his temperature down before his brain cooks inside his admittedly pretty skull.
I soak the washcloth I found underneath the kitchen sink in cold water and press it to his forehead before bringing a chair from the kitchen and sitting beside him.
Logan shivers beneath my touch, so I bring the blanket up to his neck and tuck it in gently, just like my mom used to do for me every time I fell sick.
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.”
He nods once, eyelids falling, and smiles with such contentment that makes me want to never leave his side.
I open my notebook, scribbling half a chorus about burning skies and aching hearts. His breathing slows beside me, steadier now, and I feel my own shoulders begin to ease.
I close my eyes—just five minutes. . .
I wake with a jolt.
The room is dim, and the sun is already dipping toward late afternoon. I fumble for my phone. Three missed calls from Mom. Panic surges through me as I leap to my feet.
Logan’s still asleep, breathing calmly, his fever seemingly broken.
I grab my bag and slip out the door without a sound.
Ten minutes later, I arrive at the festival grounds, breathless and flushed and feeling a little guilty.
Mom glares at me from the middle of a grassy patch, clearly not happy with my tardiness.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, running up to her. “I fell asleep—Logan’s really sick, and—”
“You blew me off, Maisie,” she snaps, cutting through my excuses like they’re made of tissue paper. “We finished most of the prep without you.”
“He needed my help,” I try to explain, feeling like I’m eight years old again, caught sneaking cookies before dinner.
“So did I,” she says, her voice scornful. “I couldn’t even reach you. At least let me know what’s going on.”
“I’m sorry.” I rub my temples, where a headache is beginning to bloom. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
She looks at me over with a sigh. “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”
“What?”
“He’s a celebrity. He’s not good for you, Maisie.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.”
“He’ll leave in the end and shatter your heart.”
“I told you—it’s not like that,” I lash out. My protest sounds hollow, even to my own ears.
“Then explain it to me.”
I can’t. Not without confessing everything—the fake relationship, the wedding, our ridiculous contract. I’m trapped in a web of lies of my own making.
“I told you, we’re just—”
“Friends, yes, I know,” she interjects, folding her arms over her chest. “Well, you might as well go back home. We’re done here anyway.”
And with that, she walks off, leaving me standing alone beneath a string of half-lit festival lights, my chest heavy with everything I’m keeping from her.