I MISS HER.
There’s a feeling deep down in my gut that I can’t shake, and there’s an ache in my chest I can’t relieve. Telling Piper it wouldn’t work between us—letting her go—was hard. I wouldn’t say it’s the hardest thing I’ve dealt with recently, but it ranks up there in the top three.
Becoming a dad to Sammy.
Coming to terms with Sophie dying.
Letting Piper go.
I’m still not sure I’m doing a very good job at the dad part, and I know for certain I’m not ready for Sophie to die. Who can ever be ready for that? But letting Piper go, that’s a done deal. I haven’t heard from her since last week. There haven’t been any missed calls or late night texts.
She’s the one who’s gone radio silent now.
I knew she would. I knew after our talk, that it was over. I told her it was. I did that. So, why do I get up every morning and check my phone?
Habit?
Hope?
I don’t know what I’m hoping for, though. Maybe for that stubborn streak that runs so deep through Piper to show up, and for her not to take my no for an answer, but I know that won’t happen. I know that, because I know Piper fears rejection.
Her parents have done a number on her self-esteem. She may come off as confident, but deep down, she craves acceptance. It kills me to think she took what I said to her last week as rejection. It wasn’t that at all.
I could never reject Piper.
I just reject my abilities to be in a relationship with her.
But I refuse to send her mixed signals, so I’ll wait until she reaches out to me. She promised she’d call. So, when she’s ready, I’m hoping she will.
I can’t lose her completely.
But I also don’t have time to sit around and dwell on my decision or how badly I miss her, because today’s the day I’m moving into Cami and Deacon’s old house. Between my personal belongings and things Kay and Cami have given me, I have quite a bit to get unloaded today.
When my phone rings, I jump on it.
“Hello?”
“Hey,” Sophie’s weak voice comes from the other end of the line.
“Hey. Is everything okay?” I ask, my mind always going to the worst-case scenario.
“Yeah, I just have a favor to ask.” She’s hesitant as usual, but I’m glad she’s asking. I’ve learned over the last month or so that Sophie hates asking for help. If she has a bad quality, that’s it.
“You know you don’t even have to ask.”
“Well,” she says, pausing. “We moved Mamie into an assisted living facility today, and I’m exhausted . . . and Sammy’s sad. I thought maybe a change of scenery would be good for her.”
“How are you handlin’ all this?” I ask, sensing the sadness and weariness in her voice and I also feel like there’s more she’s not saying.
“I’m hanging in there. What else can I do?”
“Maybe I should come stay in Houma for a couple of days. I can be there for Sammy and if you need my help with anything, I’ll be there.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.” She coughs and it immediately puts me on edge as she begins to wheeze while she’s trying to catch her breath.
“Sophie?”
She coughs again and then takes another second to catch her breath.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
There are no words spoken for a minute or more as we both sit on opposite ends, trying to put into words the inevitable and hating every moment of it.
“I’m dying, Tucker,” she finally says. “I’m dying, and I hate it. I hate my body. I hate that I won’t see Sammy turn five or go to school or graduate or get married. I hate it. All of it.” Her voice is thick with emotion when she finally stops to take a breath.
I take one of my own, mustering up the courage to say what she needs to hear. “I know,” I admit, more to myself than to her. “I hate it too. I want to take it all away. If I knew how, I would.”
“I’m also tired,” she confesses. “And I hate that too.”
I don’t know why she’s telling me all of this. I don’t know what’s making her open up to me, but I’m glad. I’m glad she’s talking. Sometimes, I feel like her words and actions are all so fucking planned they don’t feel real. This is real. Anger is real.
“You’ve fought this for a long time. You have a right to be tired,” I tell her, schooling my voice to not show the emotions that are clawing at my throat.
“I’m selfish. I’m so fucking selfish,” she sobs. “Everything I’ve been doing is for me . . . for one more day. I’ve taken chemo, radiation, medicine . . . anything for one more day. And now, I don’t want to do any of it anymore. I’m sick of being poked and prodded. And if one more doctor looks at me with pity and hopelessness, I’m going to scream.”
“Don’t say that. I mean, scream, if you want to. But don’t say you’re selfish. You’re the least selfish person I know. All those things you mentioned, you did them for Sammy. Everything you do is for her.”
She goes silent again. Her breathing is ragged. When she finally begins to speak, it’s a whisper, like she’s afraid to speak the words into the universe. “I think I’m ready for you to take her. For good.”
“No,” I tell her without a second thought.
She’s not ready.
I’m not ready.
“You don’t see the way she looks at me, Tucker,” she cries. “You don’t see the worry on her little face or the way she watches my every move. I can’t live my last days like that.”
“I won’t let you steal these moments from her. She needs you, Sophie. She needs as much time with you as possible.” I think these feelings are coming from deep down inside, somewhere that’s been hidden since my mama died.
“It’s not your choice,” she says with a little more strength than she’s managed at any other point in our conversation. “You promised you wouldn’t let her watch me die. I’m dying!”
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes. “I’ll be in Houma later tonight. We’ll talk about it then.”
She doesn’t respond. I wait for her to, but the next thing I know, the line goes dead, and I’m left holding it to my ear in disbelief.
I’m not ready.
“Damn, Tucker, for a career bachelor who still lives with his parents, you sure do have a bunch of shit to move.”
“Less whinin’, more workin’, Deke,” Micah commands.
Deacon drops a box onto the living room floor that is now mine. “I’m not whinin’, I’m just sayin’. The man has lived out of a suitcase for the last ten years, how on earth did he acquire so much crap?”
“Quit callin’ my stuff crap, asshole,” I tell him, pointing my finger his way. “And watch the floors. That hardwood is the real deal, you know.”
“Dude, I just moved out of this house last week. Don’t try to act like you know more about hardwood than I do.”
“Oh, I know all about hard wood, don’t worry.” I grab my crotch for emphasis, making both of my friends roll their eyes and groan.
I’m also an expert on blue balls lately, but I’m not telling them that.
“Come on, let’s start bringin’ in the furniture.” Micah slaps Deacon on the shoulder and heads out the front door. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we drink.”
Damn, I’ve missed this. Even though we all still live relatively close to each other, the three of us don’t get to hang out as much as we used to. I know we’ve each got things going on in our lives that keep us busy, and that’s great, but sometimes I wish we could go back to when life was simpler.
I need a beer. It’s way too early to be this sappy.
“Watch out, man,” Micah calls out from the front porch. “We’re headed to Sammy’s room with this, right?”
“Yeah, just put it on the rug that’s already laid out,” I instruct.
As Micah and Deacon are setting the bed up, I run outside to grab the remaining pieces. When I’m back in the room, I lay the parts on the floor and help the guys finish up. Once Sammy’s bed is complete, I take a step back and take it all in. This is now my house and my daughter has her own bed here. It’s overwhelming in the best kind of way.
“A canopy bed, huh?” Deacon asks. “This is really nice. When did you have time to go shopping for it?”
“I made it,” I admit. I’m proud of my work and I pray that Sammy loves it as much as I do, but I can’t help but smile at the idea that Deacon thought this was made by a professional.
“No shit?” Micah questions.
I nod my head and try to fight the blush that I can feel warming my face.
“This is some amazing work, Tucker. You’ve really outdone yourself.” Micah continues to admire the bed, running his hand along the smooth wood. I decided to leave it bare, with a light coat of finish. “It’s heavy as fuck, too,” he laughs while pushing on the footboard.
“Micah just ain’t used to luggin’ around heavy wood like we are, T. Bless his heart.” Deacon slaps his knee, laughing at his own joke.
“What the hell ever. You both know I’m packin’ just fine. You’re just a jealous bitch, Deacon.”
Deacon begins to respond, but I cut him off. “Do not mention my sister and the size of your dick in the same sentence in front of me, got it?”
“Fine,” he concedes, crossing his arms over his chest with a pout.
“Anyway,” Micah continues. “Little girls love this stuff, right? Sammy is gonna flip out.”
I let out a deep breath. “I hope so. I just want her to feel comfortable and be happy, you know?”
The three of us walk into the kitchen and decide to take a beer break. Deacon tosses me and Micah a can before adding his two cents.
“I know your situation is fucked up, man, but you’re kickin’ ass with this whole parenting thing. Two months ago, I might not have thought you were ready to be a dad, but you’ve proved me wrong. I’m proud of you, bro.”
Looking him squarely in the eye, I nod my head in thanks. “I really appreciate it, man. This has been the hardest thing I’ve ever went through, and we still have a long road ahead of us, but it’s gettin’ easier to imagine my life with Sammy now. Movin’ into this house helps a lot, so thanks for that, Deacon.”
He shrugs off my words and finishes his beer instead of speaking. Our conversations aren’t usually this serious, but our friendship runs deep. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without these two.