“Here’s to a hard day’s work.” Mia’s brother hands me and Logan two out of the three bottles of suds he just brought out from the house and then climbs onto the stool next to his brother-in-law.
We’re sitting at the bar counter in Frank and Gwen Waters’ extravagant outdoor kitchen, an impressive structure of brick and tile complete with a gigantic propane grill, a mini fridge, and even a sink—all of it taking up more space than most people’s indoor kitchens.
A pergola covered in a web of flowering vines keeps the patio shaded, and from the wooden beams hang electric lanterns and even a ceiling fan for when it gets uncomfortably hot. Which this late afternoon definitely is not, the temperature being pretty much perfect right now.
The guys and I clink our bottles together, and after taking a healthy swig, Logan says, “I think I might’ve pulled something in my back, but I still have no regrets.”
While Cameron lets out a snort, I chuckle quietly.
At the patio table a few feet away, Mia is playing cards with her grandmother and Freya while Abigail looks on, climbing on and squirming in her big sister’s chair.
It’s kind of an unusual scene, because Mia and her grandma are the cooks in the family, the ones who command the kitchen out of love rather than necessity. But today they’ve left dinner prep to others, deciding instead to spend time with the girls.
Pretty sure that was Lily’s decision, with Mia going along with whatever let her hang out with her grandmother. Which I’m guessing is partly because Mia loves no one more than she loves that old woman but also partly because she still feels bad about the way we left the party last night.
Left the party, came back here, and engaged in activities I’ve been trying—and failing—not to dwell on all day. Trying to forget them, to banish them from my memory instead of replaying and breathing through and wanting to do them again. I can safely say no other woman has ever fucked with my head this way. The honor of that goes to Mia.
I woke up not long after dawn this morning on the floor with the sunlight bright and warm on my eyelids. She was still deep asleep on the bed, and I had no problem putting on workout clothes and grabbing my sneakers without waking her.
Downstairs I found Logan lacing his own running shoes, and even though the idea of hitting the trail with a guy who’s an actual marathon runner was kind of intimidating, we headed out together.
And when we got back, the rest of the house had stirred. They were awake and disturbingly cheerful about it. Except for Paige and the girls, they had all consumed a significant amount of alcohol last night, but the Waters family doesn’t do hangovers.
After I showered, I discovered that plans for the day had already been made. While the women decided to go shopping, Frank announced that he needed help with turning a bare patch of his backyard into a paved area with seats and a brick fire pit. He’s the kind of guy who does home improvement projects himself, not because he can’t afford to hire someone but because he enjoys it—and because he always needs to be doing something.
Cameron’s participation in the project was clearly mandatory, and Logan immediately seemed resigned to do the same. Which made sense, because why would he choose to piss off his father-in-law just so he could spend the day carrying shopping bags?
Meanwhile Mia told me with a twinkle in her eye that I didn’t have to do it. “I guarantee as soon as he found out you guys were all going to be here this weekend, he made a run to Home Depot,” she whispered to me in a corner of the kitchen while handing me a mug of steaming black coffee. “If you help him, you’ll just be enabling his exploitative behavior.”
While accepting the mug, I’d thought absently that her words made a lot of sense, but my brain got stuck on the sight of her in front of me in her clingy, pink tank top and matching pajama pants, her hair still sleep-mussed, which was probably how it looked last night.
After I fucked her from behind on the floor three doors down from her parents’ room.
Fucked her slow and hard, my cock in her sweet pussy and a dildo in her ass. Which apparently drove her wild, because I lost count of how many times I felt her spasms squeezing my dick before I lost it, too, and came so hard inside her I might have blacked out for a second.
Figuring that memory might haunt me a little less if she were out of my sight rather than in it, I told her I didn’t mind staying and helping her dad.
And, like Logan, I don’t regret it now, despite the sweat-inducing drudgery of digging in the soil and hauling bricks and rocks. But I’m pretty sure it was less painful than tagging along on a shopping trip with four loud and headstrong women.
Putting the beer bottle to my lips, I tip my head back and let the cold and bitter liquid wash over my tongue and down my throat. After a moment of enjoying the aftertaste, I comment, “Could’ve done without Frank pretending to be a drill sergeant, though.”
Beside me, Cameron leans back in his barstool, rubbing the back of his neck and rolling his shoulders. Clearly also feeling the effects of a day of manual labor. “He likes to remind everyone that he’s the paterfamilias.”
This time it’s Logan who releases a snort. “As if we could ever forget.”
A muffled, melodic chime interrupts our conversation, and Logan digs into the pocket of his shorts. “Shit,” he mutters as he looks at his phone screen. Leaving his beer on the counter, he slides off the stool and walks away toward the trees with the phone up to his ear.
I guess, just like the sick and injured, people don’t run afoul of the law only on weekdays.
A gleeful, childish laughter erupts from across the patio, and I look in that direction to see Freya bopping around next to her chair, doing what I can only assume is a victory dance while Mia and her grandmother are throwing the kid mock, exaggerated glares. Abigail stands up and says something to her sister, who vigorously shakes her head.
Lily Waters then barks something that sounds like “Come here,” and while Mia gathers up the cards and starts shuffling, Abigail rounds the table and climbs into her great-grandmother’s lap. And once they’re playing again, Lily and Mia both grin as Abigail throws her big sister a triumphant and smug look while shouting, “Go fish!”
Suddenly Mia looks over at me. Her expression changes as she meets my gaze, turning from childlike happiness to teasing and flirtatious. It strikes at my core, that smile of hers—my lungs deflate, my heart skips a beat, and things start stirring in my groin.
One more night. If I screw her on the floor like last night, I can just stay there until morning again. True, it’s not the most comfortable place to sleep. Though the carpet in that room is expensive and cushy, it’s a far cry from a mattress.
But the thing is, I don’t want to be that comfortable. Spending time here in the bosom of her nice, happy, and lively family is already too easy. I could get used to it. I am used to it, only this time it feels different. Which is pretty dumb. As if by having shoved my dick inside Mia a few times, I now fit in here more. I belong more.
It’s bullshit.
And that’s why I’d rather not be on that bed with her tonight. I’m not going to sleep there with her on that snug and pillowy mattress. Not going to force myself to choose between option A of lying there and awkwardly trying not to touch her at all or option B of holding her. My body warming hers and hers warming mine. The sweet, flowery smell of her shampoo teasing my nose all night. Listening to the peaceful sounds of her sleeping. Feeling it every time she shifts, stirs, rolls over. Waking up in the morning to the sight of her and being able to touch her just by reaching out.
Her opening her eyes and giving me that same damn smile.
“Sleep okay last night?” Cameron says next to me.
I turn and blink at him. “I slept on the floor,” I admit, not in the mood for another passive-aggressive exchange about my relationship with his sister. “But yeah, it was fine.”
Raising his eyebrows, he looks doubtful as he lifts the bottle by the neck and back up to his mouth. Then his eyes flick to something behind me, and a subtle grimace passes over his face.
“Cameron,” comes Franklin Waters’ rumbling voice at my back, “we need more chairs. Go get some out of the garage, would you?”
“Can I finish my beer first?” says the son to the father. Choosing petulance just because he can.
“Get the chairs,” Frank orders with measured calm while setting his drink tumbler and a platter of food down on the counter next to the gas grill, “and then help set the table.”
Mia’s brother gets off his barstool and shuffles toward the house, still carrying his bottle, his other hand shoved into his shorts pocket.
The kid—it’s hard to think of him as anything else, even though he’s twenty-one and about to graduate college—never seems to realize the price tag on his defiance. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t give a shit, because mouthing off feels too good.
Yeah, that’s probably it. And it seems to be a genetic condition in this family.
I get down from my stool as well and am about to follow him and help with the chores when Frank’s voice stops me.
“So, Jay...thank you for helping out today.”
I pause and hang back. “No problem. Happy to.”
“Yeah, you at least more than pulled your own weight.” Mia’s dad shoots me a sideways glance as he lifts up the lid on the grill. “Guess we have that in common, huh? Using our hands for more than shuffling paper and typing on a computer keyboard.”
Okay. So I guess this is what I’m doing then. Standing here and having a conversation with Franklin Waters.
Who’s definitely being unfair to his son and his son-in-law. True, Logan took more frequent breaks while we worked today, but that was only because he kept getting phone calls from work. Seems like he’s in the middle of a pretty big and complicated case.
As for Cameron…well, I’m guessing he’s been pressed into service by his dad one too many times to do it eagerly. Plus he really likes to talk. But he’s entertaining, so I didn’t really care that I had to pick up some of his slack.
“Suppose so,” I answer Frank neutrally. “Couldn’t pay me to trade places with them, that’s for sure.”
“I hear ya.” Mia’s dad places some foil-wrapped corn cobs on a grill rack. Then he shuts the lid and gives me a direct look. “And I hope you know that I have nothing but respect for what you do. If I ever gave you a different impression, that’s just because I like to give people a hard time.”
Yeah, sure. Because what you like to do trumps how it might make people feel, right? Keeping my face impassive, I say, “No worries. Even if you were serious, it wouldn’t bother me.”
“Good for you.” Frank picks up the kitchen timer and turns the dial. I watch as he puts the ticking gadget down, wondering why he doesn’t just use the timer on his smartphone. Probably because this is how he’s done it since the dawn of time, and why change something if it works just fine?
Leaning back against the counter, the older man picks up his glass, which is filled about a quarter of the way with a brown liquid—bourbon, I’m guessing. That seems to be his poison of choice.
“It’s all just envy, anyway,” he comments. “A lot of these assholes think you’re not a real physician unless you spend half your life at risk of getting phone calls at three a.m. While they secretly resent that they have to put up with those calls.”
“Shift work definitely has its advantages,” I respond with a polite smile. At nearly sixty years of age, any long hours at inconvenient times of day are long behind Frank, since he only works at outpatient surgery centers now and basically keeps banker’s hours.
Giving a short nod, he takes a drink. “And when you’re done with residency, you’re looking at…what? Fourteen, fifteen shifts a month or so? Hard to beat that kind of work-life balance.”
“Yup.” I try not to sound dismissive or impatient but can’t be sure I’m succeeding. He clearly doesn’t know that I don’t plan on staying here as an attending ER physician, and I see no point in correcting him.
I glance toward the house and see Mia and Lily wrapping up their card game while Paige is stepping through the patio door, carrying bowls of food. Gesturing at them, I say to Frank, “I should probably go help out.”
“Just a minute. There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.” Frank picks up and checks the timer for a second. Then he crosses his arms over his chest, one hand stroking his chin as he regards me thoughtfully, looking like he’s searching for the right words. Which all seems unusually indecisive of him.
Tensing up, I brace myself for whatever’s coming. Something tells me I won’t like it. Is this the point where he brings up this weekend’s sleeping arrangements? Because that is one hundred percent not my fault—
Mia’s dad clears his throat. “We haven’t told anyone else yet, but Gwen is considering running for a judgeship. Superior court.”
Uh. Okay. That’s nothing near what I was expecting him to say. “Wow,” I respond, hesitating. “That’s...exciting.”
“Yeah.” He sounds terse, and he’s avoiding my eyes. “Well, apparently one of the first steps in that process is to hire someone to vet you as a candidate. You know, to see if the skeletons in your closet are ugly enough to become a problem.”
“Okay…?” Seriously. What does this have to do with me?
“And Gwen was not the only one whose background was checked,” Frank goes on. “Her family was, too. Her friends. And her family’s friends.”
At that last part, he pins me with a hard and direct look.
Oh…fuck.
The fog lifts. Bile rising in my throat, I clench my jaw so hard that pain shoots back to where my skull meets my neck. I’m staring at the older man, meeting his challenging look with a cold one of my own while my pulse races and echoes in my ears.
This is not fucking happening. I know what he’s going to say next. I know it, and it’s so surreal that I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I’m outside of myself, observing as I’m about to be punched in the gut.
“Why don’t you stop beating about the bush?” I grind out, feeling like the effort of it drains me of strength.
Frank’s expression turns dark and serious. “Does Mia know Bradshaw’s not your name?”
Motherfucker. Yup. It’s like one of those things. You know it’s coming. But it still knocks the wind out of you.
“It is my name,” I counter, choosing to evade the question. Because the answer is, no, Mia doesn’t know.
“Not your birth name,” her dad says. “You changed it when you turned eighteen.”
I just keep looking at him, putting all my energy into keeping my facial muscles relaxed and neutral. I feel like someone dropped a five-hundred-pound boulder on my chest and then smashed open a hornet’s nest inside my head. But there’s no fucking way I’m going to show him that.
“Have you told Mia about your father?” Frank’s voice grows stern, indignant.
As his question burrows itself into my chest, all I can manage to do is watch him, unblinkingly. He already knows the answer to that, doesn’t he? So I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of forcing me to confess that, yeah, I have ugly secrets. And no, I haven’t shared them with his daughter.
“What about your juvie record?” he asks, his tone brimming with self-righteousness. “Have you told her about that?”
My stomach turns. What. The. Fuck?
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I squeeze them into fists. Look away toward the wall of trees at the edge of the yard, where Logan is still pacing, his phone glued to his ear.
“My sealed record?” I say in a low voice. No, Mia doesn’t know. And why does Frank? They must’ve hired one hell of an investigator. Probably wasn’t cheap. Not that they can’t afford it.
Mia’s dad picks up his drink, staring down into the tumbler as he swishes it around. “It’s a problem, Jay.”
I release a scoff and a bitter laugh. “For Gwen and her judgeship bid?”
“Well, not really,” he clarifies. “Right now it probably wouldn’t be an issue. It’s not as if she’s running for president. I doubt anyone would bother to dig up dirt on her daughter’s friend.”
“Or a family friend?” I smirk at the man as I toss his own words back at him.
“Emphasis on friend.”
Pretty sure my heart actually stops beating. With nausea rolling in my stomach, I say, “I feel like you’re getting to your point now.”
Frank takes a drink. It’s a big one. Fortifying himself?
“Where you’re from. Your family. Your history.” He actually has the balls to give me a gentle, sympathetic, this-hurts-me-more-than-you kind of look as he finishes with, “You’re not right for Mia. You know that.”
Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.
No, I don’t fucking know that, asshole.
I feel like there should be steam blowing out of my ears. Yeah, there are a lot of really good reasons I should keep my hands off his daughter, but I’m not good enough? I’m not worthy? I’m too dirtied by my shitbag family and by the mistakes I made when I was a teenager, still essentially a kid?
No. Fuck him. He doesn’t get to stand there and judge me. Not based on stuff that has abso-fucking-lutely nothing to do with my life anymore.
I’ve always felt like he just kind of tolerated me as Mia’s friend. He’s not blind, and he’s not dumb. I guess he’s caught on enough to what’s going on that he’s decided to try and put a stop to it.
Well, fine. It should be easy enough to set his mind at rest.
“I wouldn’t worry if I were you.” I force myself to say this casually, and I recognize that it doesn’t exactly sound convincing.
Franklin Waters, esteemed physician and college professor and family man, frowns at me. “Meaning what?”
“Your daughter doesn’t want to marry me, Frank,” I answer, flashing him a tight smile. “She just wants to fuck me.”
I take a moment to let that sink in. Watch as his head jerks back a fraction of an inch, surprise sparking in his eyes. Enjoy the sight of his countenance clouding over, his color running high.
And then I grab my beer off the counter and walk away.
“What did you and my dad talk about?” Mia asks while placing dinner plates on the patio table. Except for Frank still guarding the barbecue and Logan still pacing over by the edge of the yard, we’re alone out here—everyone else has disappeared inside the house.
“Work stuff.” The vague answer spills almost automatically out of my mouth. It’s true enough of how the conversation with her father started, and she doesn’t need to know how it ended. That’s my problem, not hers.
Not to mention that I wouldn’t know how to tell her without revealing too much.
I pick cups off the tray Mia used to carry everything outside. We slowly but steadily make our way around the table, and I’m sticking as close to her as I can, brushing against her every chance I get. Because about fifteen feet away, her dad is standing by the grill with nothing to do except sip his bourbon while watching that ticking timer…and us.
Yeah, I’m being kind of childish. Because fuck him, that’s why.
“He didn’t say anything about last night?” Mia sets down the last plate, and the utensils clink noisily as she grabs them off the tray.
“Nope.” My chest feels tight, and my hand is unsteady as I put the last cup on the table.
So. Frank and Gwen have discovered everything. About my delinquent past. And about my dad.
But so what? I need to calm down. No one is dead or dying. This is not worth getting worked up about.
I have to tell Mia, though, and I have to do it soon so she doesn’t hear it from her parents first. I owe her that. The thought fills me with icy dread, and I want to punch Frank in the nose for putting me in this position.
Goddamn it. Goddamn him.
“Has anyone said anything to you?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Paige is pretty mad that I said nothing was going on between you and me. Mom wants to talk, but I’ve avoided being alone with her, so…”
Bent over the table while putting down the knives and forks, she doesn’t finish the thought, but she doesn’t need to. The sun is hanging low, and in the soft glow of pre-dusk, her small-boned frame seems even smaller, and she looks ethereal, almost elfish. Wisps of her wild hair are dancing around her head. She’s wearing jean shorts with a loose-fitting T-shirt that’s a bright green, a few shades darker than her eyes.
I heave a sigh. “This is not how I expected this weekend to go.”
Pausing with a steak knife in midair, her eyes appear luminous as they meet mine. “Is that good or bad?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. Exactly how much discomfort would it take for me to decide the amazing parts of yesterday—the blow job in the car, eating her pussy on the stairs, fucking her in the moonlight—weren’t worth it?
Answer: A lot. Pretty sure not even her dad being a fuckwad can make me regret coming on this trip.
“Both, I guess,” I say with a shrug.
Mia places the last fork and knife on the table, and then she inches closer to me, her voice lowering intimately. “Maybe tonight you can reprise your role as a landscaper for me? You know, look all hardworking and sweaty in your shorts with no shirt on…”
She tugs playfully at the front of my T-shirt, one corner of her mouth dimpling, and my dick responds. Which is not a good thing, not here and now.
Still, I can’t help throwing a lightning-quick glance in her dad’s direction. Yup, he’s watching.
So I bend down and whisper in Mia’s ear, “I don’t know. You gonna let me taste that sweet ass of yours again?”
I can feel her spine straightening, can hear her sucking in and holding her breath. Taking her earlobe gently between my teeth, I reach down and squeeze her butt, pressing her against my groin.
The whole thing lasts just a couple of breathless seconds, and when I let her go, she pulls back, her cheeks flushed. With one last fiery look full of lust and promise, she turns on her heel, grabs the empty tray, and flits away.
Across the patio, Frank is giving me a death stare. I meet it head on, refusing to be the one to look away first.
That’s right, old man. This is me. Giving zero fucks about you and your opinions.
Am I just making him feel more justified right now, confirming that I’m not “right” for Mia? Maybe.
Should that bother me? Probably.
Does it bother me? I don’t know.
The final preparations for dinner are done in a flurry of activity, and soon I’m seated between Mia and her brother with the rest of the Waters family crowded around the large patio table. Cicadas chirrup in the bushes, silverware clatters on ceramic plates, and throughout the meal, the nonstop conversation is cheerful and loud—and the laughter even louder.
As usual, the alcohol flows freely and the table is crammed full with food. The perfectly grilled meats smell smoky and savory, and with sides like potato salad and coleslaw and baked potatoes and vegetable kabobs, there’s something to please every palate. Even Freya and Abigail are eating with gusto, munching on hot dogs and corn on the cob and gulping down their juice with the reverent expressions of children who are rarely allowed sugary drinks.
As soon as they’re done, their little bodies fly out of their chairs and off into the darkening backyard for a last round of play before bed. Cameron, who has wolfed down his food like a competitive-eating champ, volunteers to go keep an eye on them, and as he walks away, Gwen warns him that it’s too dark to take the girls up in the treehouse.
I don’t have much of an appetite, so after finishing a sparse plate, I settle back in my chair with my second bottle of beer of the evening, quietly listening to the chatter around me. The topic has inevitably turned to politics. The verbal sparring starts between Frank and Lily, who are at opposite ends of the table and have to raise their voices to hear each other. Soon the rest of them abandon their own conversations and are picking sides, and the discussion heats up.
With even Mia occasionally piping up with an opinion, the only ones staying out of it are me and Paige, who I notice is silently picking at her food and sipping her water and staring absently off into space. With an arm crossed over her growing midriff, she seems to be avoiding eye contact with anyone, including her husband.
When it’s time for Freya and Abigail to head inside to get ready for bed, it’s Logan who rounds up the kids amid much whining and protests and begging for just a little more time. Faced with their father’s lack of mercy, the girls tell everyone good night before Logan herds his daughters inside the house without a word or glance at his wife.
There’s something not right there. Has Mia noticed? I’ll have to ask her. Because apparently I care about the health of her sister’s marriage.
Which is because I care about all of them. Yeah, even Frank, who’s lounging at the end of the table with his wife on one side and his oldest daughter on the other, nursing his tumbler of booze at his chest. I hate to admit it to myself, but I do care about his opinion. As much as I want to dismiss him and the shit he said to me, I can’t. The brutal truth is, I’m pretty fucking devastated by it.
This family, with their camaraderie and their hedonism and their seductive rightness, has sucked me in. And sitting beside me, her shoulder almost touching mine, is the woman who ties me to them. Mia, who I was absolutely content to call my best friend, and only that, until that night when she opened that big mouth of hers and asked a question that should’ve brought me closer to these people. Except I’m pretty sure it did the opposite.
You’re not right for Mia. You know that.
I do know that.
I know I don’t fit in with these people. Mia is unaware of that and why, but thanks to Frank’s bullying, she’s going to find out.
And a guy who won’t be around much longer, whose foreseeable future has no room for a serious girlfriend? He’s also not right for Mia.
Not to mention that I’m most likely not the man she really wants, anyway.
So I’m sitting here among this happy and boisterous group of people, and for the first time I’m edging aside the curtain hiding the thoughts that I’ve been aware of for a while but haven’t wanted to acknowledge: that maybe I should just cut my losses.
That maybe I need to end this while I still can.
A weight settles on my shoulders. It’s a crushing and desolate prospect.
Cameron returns to the table, stopping behind his chair and bracing his hands on the back of it as he looks around at everyone. “What time are you all leaving tomorrow?”
Across from him, Paige answers, “Our flight’s at noon.”
Turning to look past me, Cameron raises his eyebrows. “Mia?”
“We’re hitting the road first thing,” she says, widening her eyes at me. “Right?”
“Sure.” A knot of tension forms between my shoulders at the reminder that I’ve got another whole day’s drive home tomorrow. Just me and Mia, alone in her little car. So many miles. So many hours. So much potential for trouble.
Cameron straightens away from the chair. “Then I probably won’t see you before you leave.”
“Where are you going?” Lily asks sharply from the end of the table. “You’re not staying for our poker game?”
“It’s Saturday night, Grandma.” Her grandson throws his arms out, apparently thinking he needs say no more.
Pressing her lips together, the old lady rolls her eyes. “Well, hang on a minute. There’s something I wanted to say. While I have you all here.” She casts a glance sideways at the patio door. “I was going to wait for Logan to come back, though…”
“He’ll probably be a while,” Paige supplies. “Abi can take a long time to settle down when she’s in a strange bed, and he usually falls asleep while he’s waiting.”
With a nod and a sigh, Lily says, “Okay, then.”
Beside me, I can feel Mia shifting restlessly.
“Everything okay, Mom?” comes Frank’s voice from the other end of the table, low and rumbling with concern.
“Actually, no.” Hesitating, Lily Waters runs her gaze around the table. Her eyes go liquid and filled to the brim with emotion, filled with the love she has for these people. Unease curls in my stomach, and I’m sensing a similar sensation spreading through everyone else.
“I probably should have told you this sooner,” she goes on, “but I wanted to see you all together first. Celebrating my birthday and...being happy.”
A heavy silence falls.
Frank is the first to break it. “Mom. What’s going on?”
“Well.” Lily’s breath blows out with a puff. “There’s no easy way to say this. When I was in the hospital, they ran blood tests that came back abnormal, so then they put me through all these machines for more tests, and it turns out I have cancer.”
Oh, shit. My stomach drops, and my heart jumps into my throat.
“What?” Frank barks, and there are several gasps and someone lets out a choked, “Oh, my God.”
“So they did a biopsy,” Lily continues, raising her stoic voice above the shocked murmurs around the table, “and it turns out I have pancreatic cancer. It’s spread to my liver. It’s not operable. I could go through chemo and radiation, but the odds of it making a difference are so low it’s a joke. So I’m not going to. Treat it, that is.”
Shit, shit, shit. Closing my eyes briefly, I clench the handle on my chair. And then I turn to Mia, swiveling my head slowly toward her, dreading this, not at all prepared for what I’m going to find.
Her face, which I can only see in profile as she stares at her grandmother, is ashen, her lips bloodless and slightly parted. There’s a deer-in-headlights look in her eyes. I reach out and take her hand under the table, squeezing it.
She stays unmoving and silent, her attention still frozen and fixed on Lily, and the only sign of life is the heaving of her chest and her hand tightening on mine, clutching it like she’ll fall to her death if she lets go.
This time it’s Gwen who finds her voice first, quietly asking her mother-in-law, “How long did they give you?”
“Best-case scenario, I make it until Labor Day but not much longer.” Lily sounds business-like and almost brusque in her response. “Worst case, I don’t get to experience another Fourth of July.”
More shocked mumbling ripples around the table, and Paige’s voice is high-pitched with disbelief as she bursts out with, “The Fourth is less than two months away! Do you even feel sick? You don’t seem like it.”
Lily’s unflappable facade cracks a little at that, her weathered face twisting and twitching as if she’s fighting back tears. “Not really. I might be getting tired a little more quickly, but I’m not sure that’s not all in my head.”
“You need to get a second opinion,” Mia’s dad states, his resolute tone shooting like a bullet across the table at his mother. “I know a great oncologist—”
“Stop it,” Lily snaps. “Just stop it, Frank.”
Her son clamps his mouth shut and scowls at her.
Impatiently, the older woman continues. “I already did get a second—and a third—opinion, because I knew if I didn’t, you wouldn’t accept it. They all told me the same thing.”
Well. There’s not much to say after that, is there? Lily Waters seems to have accomplished something she probably never has before: rendered her talkative and opinionated children and grandchildren utterly speechless.
Beside me, Mia keeps her death grip on my hand, and I want nothing more than to wrap my arms around her and hold her. I can feel her shock and pain like it’s my own, know her well enough and how much her grandmother means to her to know that it’s taking all her strength to keep it together right now.
And I’m wishing she didn’t feel like she needs to put on a brave face at all. Wishing I could tell her to let go, that I’d catch her.
“Well.” Cameron’s voice sounds broken as he pulls out his chair and plunks himself back down in it, his urgency to head out apparently gone. “That is unbelievably fucked up.”
“Cameron,” his mother chides, tossing a dark frown at him.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Gwendolyn,” Lily says with a click of her tongue. “Don’t scold the boy for telling the truth.”
Mia’s mom throws a helpless and exasperated look at her mother-in-law.
And the older woman points a finger at her daughter-in-law and briskly goes on with, “Yeah, you go ahead and give me that look. Pretty soon I won’t be a thorn in your side anymore.”
Oh, Jesus. Just when I thought this whole conversation couldn’t get any worse…
“That was unnecessary, Mom.” Frank says this calmly, in contrast with his countenance, which is drained of color. He puts a hand on his wife’s shoulder. Gwen stares down at the table and fiddles with her paper napkin, looking stricken.
“What?” Lily scrunches up her nose as she glances around the table. “Did you think I’d stop speaking my mind just because I’m dying?”
There’s a short pause, and then Mia lets out a short burst of laughter. There’s very little genuine amusement in that sound, but I’m guessing her well of emotions flooded, and this is what spilled over.
A few others—Cameron, Paige, and Lily herself—join in with a few chuckles, and that seems to lift the lid of tension around the table. Paige gets up and walks over to her grandmother, throwing her arms around Lily from behind and burying her face in the older woman’s hair. At the opposite end, Gwen puts her hand on Frank’s cheek, and their foreheads touch. To my right, Cameron places his elbows on the table and rests his head in his hands.
Only Mia doesn’t move. She sits there staring at nothing. Still holding my hand. I want to swoop her up and carry her away. I also want to tell her to go give her grandmother a hug, but something tells me she doesn’t need any advice or direction right now. So I keep my mouth shut and just hold her hand.
The patio door opens, and Logan steps out. He’s thumb-typing on his phone, his attention absorbed by that as he walks back to the table. Then he takes his seat again, sets down the phone, and blithely announces, “Well, that was easier than expected. Pretty sure the girls were still exhausted from staying up so late last night.”
He picks up his beer bottle and brings it to his lips, but instead of taking a drink, he frowns and glances around the table. Lowering the bottle, he gives his wife a bewildered look and asks, “What’s wrong?”
And that’s when Mia tears her hand out of my grasp, her chair scraping on the concrete deck as she shoves away from the table. Muttering a hurried “Excuse me,” she leaves us and rushes to the patio door, fleeing into the house.
I don’t even stop to think before I get up and follow her.
She’s gone when I get inside, but figuring she would’ve gone up to her room, I start heading upstairs. There’s a painful knot in my throat that swells as I take the steps two at a time.
The door to her room is closed. I’m not sure why—some sort of reflexive politeness?—but I stop outside, knock, and wait. There’s no answer, no sound at all coming from beyond the door. Maybe I guessed wrong, and she didn’t even come up here?
Twisting the knob, I push the door open. It’s pretty dark in there, but I see her silhouette over by the window, a gray shadow in a room turned a whole palette of gray by the last few minutes of twilight remaining outside. She stands with her back to me, and I can just make out by the shape of her that she’s got her arms wrapped around herself.
Letting the door click shut behind me, I cross over to her. For a few moments, I’m wavering, at a loss for what to do or say. This is nothing like offering sympathy to grieving relatives of my patients. Even that is never easy, but people die in my line of work, and it’s part of the job. I have no problem with it. I’m actually pretty good at it.
But this…this is Mia. It’s Mia, and she’s hurting, and she needs so much more from me than strangers in the ER need from a physician.
“Hey,” I say softly. And when she doesn’t move, respond, or in any way acknowledge my presence, I put my hands on her shoulders.
She jerks and stiffens under my touch. Bracing herself, like she’s about to shut me out, push me away. No way am I letting her do that, so I tighten my grip on her shoulders and pull her back into my chest.
Bending down so my mouth is close to her ear and I can feel wayward tendrils of her hair against my cheek, I tell her, “I’m sorry, Mia.”
She goes more rigid at that, keeping herself so still that I can tell she’s holding her breath.
I slide one hand across her front until it finds the bare skin of her upper arm, locking her in my embrace, hugging her tightly as I repeat near her ear, “I’m so sorry.”
Her breath hitches, and then it escapes with a whoosh and a gasp. A whimper erupts from deep in her throat, and her shoulders sag and her knees buckle. It’s like she collapses, caving in on herself, and the only thing stopping her from sinking to the floor is me holding her up.
Gently and slowly, I let her sit down on the floor, and then I join her there. Her body half turned toward me, I wrap her up in my arms again, keeping her as close and tight as I can. She cries mostly in silence, holding her breath as shudders are racking through her in waves, and only when she’s forced to take a breath does she make any sound.
And it’s a heartbreaking noise that wrenches itself out of her then, a kind of hiccupping moan that cuts me and rips me open. I’d give anything right now to take all this misery away from her, to carry it for her so she doesn’t have to.
“Please tell me this isn’t real,” she gulps out between sobs, her voice thick with disbelief and despair. “It’s not actually happening, right?”
I can’t answer, not in a way she wants or is helpful. So I just squeeze her harder, and as I rest my forehead against her head, my face buried in her hair, my own eyes and nose start to water as well.
At my sniffle, she twists toward me and throws her arms around my waist. Eventually her breathing slows, and she relaxes against me, going soft and boneless in my arms. We sit there for a long while, saying nothing. And the whole time it’s thrumming at the back of my mind, the knowledge that being able to comfort her like this is a privilege and I’m a lucky son of a bitch, while I’m wishing this wasn’t necessary at all.
I’m also trying to keep her from accidentally touching me anywhere near my crotch, because I’m holding her and she feels so soft in my arms and smells so good, and my dick apparently doesn’t give a shit that this is a seriously inappropriate time for a semi.
I know suddenly that I’m not getting laid tonight—which, no, is not in any way disappointing or upsetting, because I’m not an insensitive douche.
I won’t be telling her any of the stuff Frank and Gwen’s investigator discovered about me, either. Not tonight.
I also know that I won’t be sleeping on the floor. Because there’s no way I can let Mia lie in that bed by herself all night, alone with her shock and grief and misery.
And the reason I can’t let her do that is because I love her.
I fucking love her, and not just as a friend.
I’m in love with Mia Waters. And somehow, that’s both the best and the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.
The idea that I need to end things now? It starts to feel like a joke. Because it might already be too late.