Page 18 of The Write Off

“Right. Don’t get too close to them, Logan. Children are practically walking petri dishes.” With that lame attempt of demonstrating concern, she ends the call. I breathe a deep sigh of relief and rejoin the only blood relatives I actually like.

The next few hours are fairly uneventful. I rent the animated Spider-Man movie the children requested. What follows is two hours of CGI excellence and utter nonsense. I have no idea what’s happening on the screen. Apparently, this is the second movie and I’m unfamiliar with every character except Peter Parker. But the kids enjoy it. Once their fevers break, they both snack on crackers while they try to help me follow the story.

The movie finishes just after seven and both children have fallen asleep. Anna is snuggled into my side, her breaths slow and deep. Not wanting to disturb her, I use my Apple watch to text Shannon that they should just stay here for the night. They’re both clearly exhausted and it doesn’t make sense for her to wake them up and take them out in the cold. She reluctantly agrees.

I’m able to reach the dog-eared paperback on my end table without waking Anna and flip to where I left off. It’s a mystery novel I’ve read twice already. Every time I read it, I notice something I missed before. The slowly building tension, the red herrings, and the gratifying conclusion; It’s a perfect example of master storytelling.

I look at my watch when I notice that my eyelids are getting heavier. It’s after eleven and neither kid has even stirred. Carefully I stand, trying my best not to disturb either of them. I usually do a full body weightlifting routine on Saturdays and find myself stiff from spending so much of my day on the couch. I carry Anna to the guest room, her limp little body feeling heavy in my arms. She doesn’t rouse when I put her on the bed and pull the blanket over her, tucking her in with her stuffed rabbit, Rumplebunkins. I decide to let Travis stay on the couch. He prefers it to the air mattress, anyway. I grab an extra blanket and drape it over his sleeping form before turning out the lights.

I fall into my own bed, exhausted, and reach for my phone. I open my messages, irritated that I didn’t get a response from Rilla.

I freeze as I immediately realize why she didn’t reply. The text that I carefully typed earlier stares up at me in draft form. I never hit send.

Chapter 9

Rilla

“She looks like an angel,” Maggie whispers.

“Angels don’t drool that much,” Betty replies.

I feel the weight of their bodies sitting on my queen bed and refuse to open my eyes, choosing instead to pull my comforter over my head and pretend they aren’t there. My head hurts and my mouth tastes ghastly. Is rotting metal a thing? That’s what I taste.

“Go away,” I moan without opening my eyes. “Let me die in peace.”

“You have ten minutes before I’m dousing you with ice water,” Betty says softly as she plants a quick kiss on my forehead. Her cruel to be kind method of care might be what I need right now, but it’s definitely not what I want.

The mattress sighs as they stand and leave my bedroom. I don’t emerge from the covers until the murmur of their voices has faded away. Blinking at the brightness of my room, I curse myself for never getting around to hanging the curtains my mom sent me. A glass of water and a bottle of Advil sits on my bedside table. Betty must have left them for me. She’s a kind soul, despite her threats of an ice dousing.

I reach for the water, almost falling out of bed in the process. The ache in my head isn’t as bad as the taste in my mouth, but I’ve definitely felt better. My skin feels tight, almost like I’m covered in a sunburn.

I take two of the little blue capsules, washing them down with the entire glass of water. Pushing my blankets back I realize I’m still wearing the outfit I chose for my meeting with Logan.

Logan.

I force myself to get up and strip off the jumpsuit, finding the embarrassment and rage of being stood up much more difficult to swallow than the pills. I throw on a worn tank top and the same jeans I wore for most of yesterday and practically stomp down the hall to the washroom. Betty and Maggie’s laughter travels down the hallway, though I don’t know what there is to laugh about; that is, until I see myself in the mirror. My curls are frizzy, sticking out in every direction. I clearly didn’t wash my face last night and dark mascara smudges line both eyes. I look like a cartoon Disney villain, crazed and disheveled.

I laugh out loud at how frightening I look and my reflection grins back at me.

I relieve my screaming bladder while softly singing Cruella Deville to myself. Once I’m done I wash my hands and face, attempt to tame my unruly curls, and shuffle into the kitchen to join my friends. If I can still call them that after they woke me up and dragged me out of bed with threats.

“She lives!” Maggie sits, legs crossed, at my kitchen table. If I’m the villain, she’s the princess. Her flawless brown skin glows in the bright sunlight. She cradles a large white coffee cup in her hands lovingly like it’s a baby hedgehog. Her dark curls aren’t tangled and mussed, but perfectly framing her oval shaped face. Her cream colored knit sweater and jeans combination make her look casual and classy at the same time. She’s so beautiful that if I didn’t love her so much, I’d probably hate her. She beams at me, making it impossible to be angry with her.

“That depends on your definition of living,” I say, sinking into a chair next to her. I glance at Betty and she gives me a sympathetic smile as she pours a cup of coffee at the counter, her long brown hair pulled up in a sleek high pony-tail. She’s dressed in running gear that hugs her small, curvy frame. The thought of running on a day I’m not hungover doesn’t appeal to me; today, it’s downright nauseating.

“Rough night?” She asks gently as she offers me the cup. I accept it, gratefully, enjoying the warmth that immediately spreads to my hands.

“What makes you say that?”

“Aside from the fact that we’re dragging you out of bed at noon?” Maggie pulls out her phone and appears to start scrolling. Once she’s found what she’s looking for, she slides it across the table to me to read. It’s open on our group text chain.

10:47 Rilla: He didn’t show up

10:49 Rilla: He said he would be here and he didn’t show up.

10:51 Rilla: I’m going to call Bryce and demand a new editor

10:52 Rilla: Scratch that. I don’t need an editor.

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