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I look up at him wide eyed. “Wait. These are—”
“Vegan.” He sets a plate in front of me and kisses my forehead. “I’m a dick and didn’t buy you anything for Christmas. So, I thought I’d make you breakfast.”
“This is better than anything from a store, Logan. Thank you.” I take a bite and moan. They are heavenly. Fluffy and full of flavor. Not quite mom’s, but still delicious. “Oh my God, Logan,” I mumble with my mouth full.
The front door swings open before I can brag how amazing my french toast is. Dad has a take-out bag in one hand and carnations in the other. He looks exhausted, but he remembered breakfast too. I guess I know what we’re having for lunch today.
Dad stops in the doorway and stares at us. “Merry Christmas,” he says cautiously. “Tell me he didn’t stay the night again.”
“No, sir.” Logan holds a plate out, waiting for dad’s hands to be free. “Just broke in at the crack of dawn.”
“Remind me to fix that window in your bedroom, kiddo.” Dad sets his bag and the flowers on the counter then takes the plate from Logan. He joins me at the table, eyes going wide with the first bite.
I grin, so unbelievably proud and in love with Logan in this moment. “Yeah, dad, they’re just like Mom’s.”
51
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Danika
McDonald’s meatless egg McMuffin sandwich. That sandwich was the moment I knew I had a problem. I stare down at the yellow paper and my stomach twists.
“You okay?” Logan eyes me suspiciously. He takes a bite of his McGriddle. Just watching him eat makes my insides feel like they’re on a roller coaster.
“Yeah,” I nod, pushing my food away. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Shit,” he mumbles against his straw. “Do you still want to go to the beach, or skip it?”
I take a sip of my Frappuccino. The coffee tangles with whatever is going on in my stomach but stays put. “I think I’ll be okay. It’s probably all the grease they use messing me up.”
Logan points to the tray, silently asking if I’m done. I nod and he tosses the trash in the bin. For December, it’s ungodly hot, but this is normal. Unlike the rest of the country, that is buried knee deep in snow right now, winter only vacations in Florida. It hangs out, just long enough to get everyone sick then it gets stupid hot again.
The ice cream store that afternoon is where everything goes south. Logan buys me my favorite—a chocolate chip cookie dough nice-cream cone—and I only make it three licks before I feel disaster stirring. I shove my cone at Logan, who thankfully takes it without question as I cover my mouth. I run to the bathroom barely making it to the toilet before expelling everything in my stomach into the public toilet. Thankfully, it’s a clean bathroom.
I sit back on my heels and grab a few squares of toilet paper to wipe my mouth. What the hell?
At the sink I wash my hands, then splash some water on my face. I hate getting sick. I’ve been lucky and haven’t caught the funk floating through the hallways, until now. So many kids were out those last two weeks of school with one thing or another. I guess it was only a matter of time until it was my turn.
When I sit back at our table, Logan holds my ice cream out for me. I shake my head and he takes a lick of it. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I say pushing my hair back from my face. I’m hot. Sweat pools at my hairline and my shirt sticks to my back. I think if I take a shower and lie down, I’ll be okay. “I don’t feel good. Can you take me home?”
“Sure.” He tosses what's left of his shake and my melting cone in the trash. “Want some company?”
I shake my head. I don’t want him catching whatever it is I’ve got. “I think I’m going to take a nap. I’ll text you when I get up though. Okay?”
Logan links his fingers with mine and kisses my palm. “Of course, baby.”
I glance over at Logan’s house, and make sure no one is looking then lock the door. My pulse pounds under my skin, making me tremble. I’ve dodged Logan the past two days, claiming to have a contagious stomach bug. Every time I thought I was getting better; I’d throw up again. Morning. Noon. Night. It’s all the time. I didn’t think anything of it, until Sarah cracked a joke about me being pregnant.
I don’t track my periods. They’ve always been regular, but I figured when it didn’t come last month the morning after pill threw it off track. It didn’t occur to me that I hadn’t had a period this month either until Sarah said something. “Did you bring it?”
Sarah holds up a Pharmacy bag. My contents are hidden inside. “Of course. Do you really think you’re—”
“Don’t say it!” I point my finger at her, cutting her off. “I don’t want to even put the possibility into the universe.”
Sarah smirks and shakes her head. “Sorry, chicka, but you did that the moment you called me. Why not just drive down to the pharmacy and grab a test yourself?”
