I pull over on the country road. We’re only five minutes from the ranch. So close, and yet so far away. After running around the front of the Jeep, I whip the back passenger’s side door open and take in the barf-covered boy before me.

“You okay, little man?”

His eyes are wide and watery. “I’m so sorry, Willa.”

“Oh, sweet boy. Don’t be sorry.”

“I barfed in your car.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I reach forward and run a hand through his wet hair.

“It’s a mess!” He’s crying now and I want to hug him, but we all have our limits. I’ve handled my fair share of vomit as a bartender, but hugging a barf-covered child is where I draw the line.

Instead, I unbuckle him, whip his shirt off, and then squeeze him to me. Sobs rack his little body.

“I-I’m s-s-so sorry!” He’s wailing now.

“Shh. Luke. Luke. It’s just a car. It doesn’t matter. You’re what matters. I don’t care about the car, babe. I’m more worried about you.” I pull away, looking at him, trying hard not to glance down. Because I know there is barf on me. The last thing I need to do is start heaving too.

He nods tearfully at me. “Willa?”

“Yeah?”

“You have throw up on you. I can still see a strawberry.”

I pop my lips open and opt to mouth breathe so I stop smelling it, focusing on his wide blue eyes. I’m an adult, I’m an adult, I’m an adult. “That’s okay. Everything can be washed. I’m going to buckle you in and drive the rest of the way. If you feel like you need to barf again, just tell me and I’ll pull over for you. Got it?”

He nods, looking determined.

And God bless his determination because we stop twice more on the way back to the ranch.

The first thing we do is strip down outside. At least all pieces of barfy clothes. Which for him is everything, and for me is just my tank top over my bikini.

The shower proves a challenge because he can’t stop retching.

I’ve never felt more helpless. I’ve never felt teary watching someone get sick—usually I’m just annoyed—but watching his little body heave so violently has the back of my throat aching and my eyes watering.

He’s finally clean, seems relatively empty, and just looks totally exhausted standing in the middle of his room.

“When will my dad be home?”

I check my watch. “In about an hour. I’m going to call him and get our clothes in the wash. Take a quick shower. How about you lie down?”

He nods, standing in front of me, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “I want to sleep in my dad’s bed.”