41. Ryan
FORTY-ONE
Ryan
Oliver is sick. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck . Shouldn’t I have noticed something when we put him to sleep? He seemed fine. He ate his dinner. He acted completely normal.
Should I be freaking out?
I don’t know what to do here. I’ve never had to take care of anyone before. June isn’t freaking out. Of course she’s not. She’s a fucking pro, a seasoned veteran. I bet she’s dealt with this hundreds of times while I was jacking off with football and not being a dad.
Okay. She’s feeling his head. Should I feel his head? Why don’t I have a fucking thermometer?
I never felt so helpless in my life, so I do the only thing I can: I bring up the delivery app and look for the closest drug store. Got that. Now the thermometer—there’s one in the ear, across the forehead ... what happened to pointing that shit under your tongue and waiting a few minutes? Oh, they had mercury in them. Mercury equals bad. I shouldn’t be allowed to adult. I’m terrible at this.
“He’s warm,” June murmurs, and I nod in agreement. I have no idea what that means, but I’m assuming it’s bad. “You don’t feel good?”
Oliver shakes his head, his entire body scrunched inward. My poor little man just looks like he feels terrible, and I want to make everything better, but I don’t know how. He looks at me, lifting his arms, and I hand June my phone. “Go ahead and order everything we need. They should have a rush delivery option.”
My tacos do, so it only seems fitting that medicine does as well.
As soon as she takes the phone, I’m crouching down, lifting Oliver up as gently as I can. His arms latch around my shoulders, and he rests his head against my chest. His forehead presses against the front of my throat and fuck me, it is warm.
Fuck.
But June’s okay, so I’m okay. It looks like she’s checking out and getting everything ordered. See, no need to panic. It’s going to be fine.
“I’m sorry you don’t feel good.” I rub a light circle along his back, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Do you want to sleep in my room?”
“Yeah.” He nods, but it’s weak, slow.
June’s across from me, her eyes scanning him from head to toe, her fingers running under his jaw. “What doesn’t feel good, honey.”
“My tummy.” That’s all he can get out before his head jerks back and he throws up between us.
And I’m not talking about a little bit of throw up either. Nope. My little man doesn’t half ass anything. I’m coated. He’s coated. It smells so fucking gross, and I regret everything about fajita night. But Oli is sick and needs me, so I ignore the dampness of my shirt, the pungent smell, the chunks, and hold him close.
“It’s okay, buddy.” June rubs his back, and a worried look passes between us.
“How about we get you all cleaned up?” I ask him softly, edging toward my room and more specifically my shower. “How does that sound?”
He doesn’t respond, just nods his head, and I pick up the pace. June is beside me, only breaking away when we get to the bathroom to turn on the shower.
Oliver is clinging to me. The vomit between us is so warm, and I’m half afraid that if I lift him from my chest, I’ll splash it all over the bathroom. Plus, I don’t dare move him. Not now.
June lifts her brows, gesturing to the two of us. “Did you want to try to get undressed?”
I would love it, but I don’t see how it’s feasible. “I don’t want to jostle him too much. I’ll get him undressed once we get everything washed off.”
Without wasting another second, I get in the shower, holding Oliver under the warm spray. He looks up as the water hits his back, his tired eyes glancing around and then down at our shirts.
“I frowed up.”
“You sure did.” I pull him away just a touch, just enough to wash away the vomit clinging to us. “Got me really good too. But it’s okay. We’ll get you all clean, and then you can go back to bed.”
“I’m tired.” Oliver yawns and lets me pull the shirt from his torso. “But my tummy feels better.”
Mine doesn’t. But at least I don’t have hunks of chicken and vegetables clinging to my shirt anymore .
June runs out of the bathroom, then comes back with a few towels and fresh clothes for the both of us. Together we manage to take off the rest of Oliver’s soaked clothes and get him clean and vomit-free. She snags him from my hands and wraps him in a towel.
“All right. All clean. Let’s get you in some fresh pajamas and into bed. Daddy will be right behind us.”
The two of them leave my bathroom, and I’d love to say I undressed and cleaned up without incident, but that would be a lie. As soon as I pull the shirt off my head, I get another whiff of vomit and throw up all over the shower floor and my jeans.
Fuck me.
I’m going to need to wipe down the entire house.