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“Never had it,” I admit.
“How’s that possible?”
I want to explain that only one of the foster homes I grew up in ever cooked proper food and that all the others were a mishmash of choose-your-own-adventure freezer meals. As I got older, I learned the families Dunbar and I lived with received money to help feed us, but it didn’t seem to be where the money actually went.
When I shrug he says, “Well, I’m excited to be your first.” His cheeks flush when he recognizes the connotation.
“Oh, Logan. You’re not my first.” I give him a deadpan look and smile. I know I should keep saucy comments like these to myself, but he makes it too easy for me to poke at him. I can’t resist.
He rolls his eyes and shakes his head at me. “Has anyone ever said you’re a little crass?”
I feign shock. “Me? Not me!”
By some miracle I’m actually not at all thankful for, Logan and I prepare dinner without touching each other or making any other sexual innuendos. I waited for him to not-so-accidentally brush up against me again, but that probably couldn’t be played up as accidental if it happened a second time.
I flashback to waking up alone in my room last Sunday morning, knowing Logan had left. I was disappointed. I knew we hadn’t intended to fall asleep together on my bedroom floor, but waking up next to him, knowing he chose to lay in my discomfort with me, created an aftershock of devastation.
Everyone important in my life, except for Iz, abandons me when life gets tough. Even the good foster parents, who seemed to care at first, gave up when I wasn’t doing well in school, or my anxiety skyrocketed and they didn’t know how to help. I’d had boyfriends over the years, a few were even serious, but the moment Dunbar started his shit and my life became complicated, they all bailed.
Logan crawled into the mess of it with me Saturday night, and I’ll never forget it. I don’t know how life dropped both of us into this small town, allowing us to find each other, but he stays when others run. I feel more certain with each passing day that I want mine and Rainey’s future to include him.
My senses were skeptical of the unfamiliar scent of the chicken curry making themselves at home in my kitchen. But as the four of us sit at the kitchen table and eat, I can’t get enough. I assume Logan and I pulled off the recipe because I’ve tasted nothing like this in my life—in a good way. The savory sweetness of the sauce fills my mouth, and I imagine I could eat this every day for the rest of my life. Maggie’s also shoveling the rice and curry into her mouth, but Rainey just picks at the garlic naan bread.
Hope jumps onto the dining room table and I swat at her bottom, reminding her she’s not allowed on counters or tables. Logan and Maggie have stretched Rainey and I’s world in these last few weeks. My life today wouldn’t be recognizable by anyone who knew me four months ago. It’s wild how fast life can change.
With the girls bathed and put in their beds for the night, Logan and I sit together on the couch and start an episode ofParks and Rec. Logan refuses to admit he likes this show better thanThe Office, but I’ll make him a believer yet. We finish two episodes and part ways for the rest of the evening. Still struggling to have the energy to keep up with Rainey, I’m calling it an early night.
I’m halfway undressed when my bedroom door pops open. I rush to cover myself, shocked someone’s at my door. With my t-shirt pulled down to cover my private bits, I spin and see Logan standing in the door, his eyes wide in shock.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, turning and closing the door until only a crack remains. “I knocked,” he says through the crack, “I guess you didn’t hear. Um, I wanted to let you know Rainey’s crying.” He pulls the door entirely closed, and I scramble to re-dress myself, mortified Logan just saw me partially naked.
The cry coming from Rainey’s room is pitiful. Logan beat me to her and flipped on the overhead light in the room to evaluate what was happening. I sit on her bed, rubbing her back for comfort.
“What happened?” I look at Logan, expecting an answer.
“Not sure,” he says, not meeting my eyes, still looking Rainey over to determine the cause of her cries. They’re so persistent she can’t tell us what’s wrong.
“Rainey. Are you okay?” Still rubbing and patting her back, I find she’s burning up and sweating.
“I think she has a fever.” Logan states before I have the chance.
“I’ve got some children’s Tylenol in the bathroom.”
“Do you have a thermometer?”
I try to remember where I placed the first-aid kit I bought after Rainey moved in. I start toward the steps thinking it’s in the kitchen.
“The first aid kit’s under the bathroom sink, too,” Logan says, interrupting my mental search. “I found it in the kitchen last week when I was cleaning and moved it up here.”
Without a word, I exit the room and rush to the bathroom to find what I need. I struggle to find the thermometer in the jam-packed makeshift kit I created. In true Hurricane Noah form, I dump the contents of the entire kit onto the vanity top and into the bathroom sink.
“Here,” I say, thrusting the thermometer toward Logan. I’ve taken my temperature before, of course, but my mind’s lost all sense as worry for my niece overcomes me. He presses the tip of the electronic thermometer into her right ear and waits for the result while Rainey cries even harder. I hold her hand and whisper reassuring words.
“102.4.” He pulls the thermometer from her ear.
“What should we do?”
“She may have a virus or something else going around. It’s common for kids to get stuff like that, but I’m not sure why she’s crying this hard.”
