A Mercedes with darkly tinted windows was leaving my dad's driveway as I turned the corner to his street. I lifted my sunglass to get a look at the driver, but the sun reflected off the window tint making it impossible to see inside. Dad was paying his oncologist to make house visits, but I had only seen Dr. Hersh in a blue Land Rover. Of course, it was entirely possible a Bel Air oncologist would have more than one car. I headed up the driveway.

I'd left the house before Shay. She had stayed in her room, most likely on purpose, just to avoid me. I'd let my mind conjure every fucking scenario of where she might be going to on her regular outings. She'd told me more than once that she didn't keep many close friends because she moved around a lot and because she'd had a few friendships that were slightly toxic, making them the kind of friends you were better off without. Still, I'd allowed myself the idea that she was just meeting a friend for lunch or coffee. But that possibility was weighted down in my mind, buried beneath the many other scenarios that made me want to punch someone. Jealousy was not a good trait for me. Since this was my first bout with it, I was slowly learning how to deal with it. A trip to my dad's was always a nice, icy splash of water to shock away any other thoughts.

Dad's full-time nurse, Mr. Pruitt, was sitting in the living room drinking a soda and reading a book.

"Hello, Mr. Archer, I didn't hear you pull up." He pushed the book aside to stand up, but I put up my hand to stop him. He sat back. "He'll be a little groggy. I just gave him his morphine shot. I'm afraid he's been in a lot of pain. But he's been eating better these last few days."

"That's good to hear. Who was that I saw leaving the house? A new doctor?"

Pruitt was a big man with thick shoulders and very large hands, considering he provided personal care for people. He shifted on the couch to talk to me better. "No, the doctor was here yesterday. Didn't do much except leave a new prescription. Your father was in an exceptionally foul mood, so the doctor made it quick. But the car you saw leaving was Miss Odenkirk. She comes once a week and sits with your dad for an hour. Then she smiles and says good-bye and sails off in her Mercedes. I think she's helping your dad with final arrangements."

"Final arrangements? Oh right, those final arrangements. I thought he'd already taken care of those. He told me just a short graveside funeral. Maybe he changed his mind. I better head up before he dozes off."

As I climbed the stairs, it dawned on me that I'd never see him standing at the top again, glowering down at me, sharply barking my name to scold me about something. I turned down the hallway to his room and knocked lightly before going in.

Dad's face was small and so pale it was nearly lost in the white pillow. He didn't hear me come in. His eyes were closed, and there was hardly any movement in his face. I froze for a second, watching and waiting for him to take a breath. The sudden tension in my body eased as his chest lifted and fell.

His nightstand was cluttered with medicine bottles, pungent ointments and laxatives. Growing up, I couldn't remember him having so much as a cold or flu. I always figured he was so tough the germs just didn't want to bother with him. But sickness had caught him now, proving my theory about his toughness wrong. Although I had to give him credit. He'd been pretty fucking tough through his whole battle with cancer.

I pulled up a chair. The noise woke him. He stared up at the ceiling for a second as if he was trying to remember who and where he was. Without lifting his head from the pillow, he turned his face toward me.

"It's you, son. I wasn't sure if Pruitt was back to poke and prod me again." He struggled to sit up.

I hopped up and helped move his pillow behind his back as he settled himself against the massive mahogany headboard. He cleared his throat. As he reached for his glass of water, I saw how shaky his hands were. I'd never seen his hands shake. It took me a second to pull my eyes from his trembling fingers. He was a weak, withering shell of the man I knew.

"Pruitt said the doctor came yesterday. What did he say?"

"He said I'm going to die." He sipped some water. I grabbed the glass to return it to the nightstand. "I told him not to write out the death certificate yet because I'm not done being a miserable wretch ."

I smiled. It was rare for him to say something self-deprecating and humorous. I could only assume it was the morphine. It seemed to act somewhat like a truth serum, like the day he'd mentioned the constant sparkle in his mother's eyes.

"How is the business going?" He switched right over to the only topic that truly interested him. What I would have loved to talk to him about was our life together, the few somewhat normal memories I had with him. Like the night we both decided to sit outside and wait for the comet shower the news had promised. We hadn't seen much in the way of star showers, but I could still remember being thrilled as hell that he had suggested it. Those moments were rare, but they stood out like diamonds in a field of coal.

"I'm getting started, but it's going to take time to—"

"Get your reputation back," he interjected.

"That too."

"Tell me what's new with it? Any possible clients? Don't forget, I've added a stipulation to your trust that it has to be up and running with a seven figure a year profit before you can touch your money."

"Yes and I told you I'm not going to let you hold it over my head anymore. I'm leading my own life from this point forward." Already my tone had turned to anger. I sat back on the chair. "S—Dad." I was officially done calling him sir. "Let's not talk business or money. It always ends up in a fight."

"Fine. But I should tell you, I'm leaving this house to charity, cancer research. Not that it'll do me any good now," he said with a terse laugh. "I know this place doesn't hold any sentimental value for you. I figured you wouldn't mind."

"As I recall, you said sentimentality was for soft, silly people who had nothing better going for them."

"Did I say that? I always did have a way with words." He grinned weakly. It was what I used to secretly call his villain's grin. It was really the only smile he had. "So you're all right with me giving the house to charity?"

"Yes, I don't mind."

His eyes had sunken deeper into his face, making him look as if he was a century old. "That didn't sound too convincing. I could have the lawyer—"

"No, Dad, I think it's a good idea. I'm just a little surprised to hear you are giving to charity. You were never much of a philanthropist."

"Bullshit." He shifted back in an attempt to look taller and more broad shouldered in his bed, but so much of his muscle mass had withered away, it was impossible. "I gave to charities all the time. I just never boasted about it like most people. Enough of that." He smoothed the blanket on his lap with his shaky hands. "What else is new?"

How badly I wanted to break into a long, happy narrative about the incredible woman who was living in my house and who, without being anything but herself, was teaching me how to be more human. Something I never learned at home.

"Nothing much," I said, knowing full well he wouldn't be the least bit interested in hearing about Shay. "Pruitt said there's a woman named Miss Odenkirk who comes here once a week—"

"What the fuck is he talking about?"

"I saw someone leaving the house in a Mercedes with tinted windows, so I asked him who it was."

The subject had made him fidget and readjust himself against his pillow. "My head feels heavy from the damn drugs." He made it glaringly obvious that he didn't want to discuss the woman in the Mercedes. I helped him move his pillows down. He rested back against them and pulled the blanket up higher. He looked like a helpless, sick little boy in his vast antique bed.

His eyes drifted shut.

I lifted my hand and hesitated before pressing it against his head. I could count on one hand the number of times we had touched each other with something remotely like affection. His skin was clammy, but he didn't pull away from my touch.

"Sorry I've been a disappointment, Dad," I said quietly.

"You've never been a disappointment, Nash," he muttered as I walked away.

I stopped at the door and looked back at him. Every time I walked away from him, I wondered if it would be the last time we spoke.

I headed back down the wide staircase with the green carpet runner and the creepy eyed portraits. So many times I wished that our house had been like a normal house with cheery, lumpy furniture that had been lived in and enjoyed. So many times I wished that I would be walking down those stairs to a big fatherly smile and a box of ridiculously sugary cereal like my schoolmates did in the morning. But now, as I walked through the cavernous rooms to the entry and the front door, it occurred to me that I was going to miss the place when the old man was gone. It was even entirely possible that I was going to miss the man himself.