Page 40 of Love Me Fierce

This crushes me.

Nobody should be made to feel disposable.

On top of that, I’m more convinced than ever that Vivian is hiding something. How am I supposed to keep her safe if I don’t know the whole story?

My thoughts return to the question I haven’t been able to answer. Is Vivian in trouble? Or isshethe trouble?

I jump in the shower, then roust a sleepy Logan. His dark room has that faint scent of dirty laundry and the deodorant he’s started using. I make a note to get him to change his sheets later.

“Dad,” he groans, trying to tug the covers back up.

“I gotta drop you at Uncle Lind’s on my way, remember?”

He releases a heavy sigh. “Right.”

I watch him a moment longer. When he was little, he always asked me to snuggle with him in the mornings. Him not asking in a while simply represents another milestone of his development and not some sign he loves me less. Vivian’s warmth and dedication to her son weaves through my thoughts, softening the tiny note of grief hiding behind my heart.

What would it be like to share these kinds of feelings with someone else? Someone who’s living them too?

“You want a fried egg with toast?”

He sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Yum. Thanks, Dad.”

I turn away and head for the kitchen.

I get out the cast iron pan, the eggs, and the loaf of Mom’s sourdough she sent home with me last night. While the pan heats, I pour a cup of coffee from the pot I brewed before hopping in the shower. On the small round table, Logan’s schoolwork is still spread out, so I gather it up and put it on the bench by the door. He’s not going to get any homework done today, but when I get back tonight, we can tackle it together.

I’m just serving up our breakfast when Logan comes down the stairs in a hoody and jeans and mismatched socks. I pour him a glass of milk and settle across from him with my second cup of coffee.

“Sleep okay?” I ask him.

Logan cuts a bite with his fork. “Yeah. I was beat.”

“Should I tell Uncle Linden to go easy on you?” I tease.

He gives me a look. “Don’t. He’d only work me harder.”

“Probably right.” I take a long sip of coffee.

“Is the school gonna email me what I’m missing? Or do we need to like, ask?”

I swallow my bite. This is another thing I’m adjusting to regarding middle school—trying to communicate with multiple teachers, each with slightly different policies. “Might be best to ask.”

He nods. “Maybe… um, I can email them.”

“Need my help?”

He takes a sip of milk. “What do I say?”

“Have you ever emailed someone before?”

His eyes stay on his plate. “Can you help me?”

“You bet.” I have a vague recollection of the communication policy from when I signed those classroom handouts at 6th-grade orientation back in August.

“I have a project in health,” he says with a heavy sigh. “My group’s gonna be mad I’m not there.”

It’s painful to watch the weight of his actions dragging him down, but this lesson is best learned without me meddling.

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