Roscoe and I drove into Knoxville to drop off the rental car. He took Momma’s car and I took the rental. On the way back, we stopped by the hospital to check on Momma; she was asleep, so we met with the hospice social worker to arrange her transport home.

Roscoe held it together, which was the opposite of how Winston men usually dealt with stressful situations. Of course, this was based on previous experience, which was now eight years out of date.

I also held it together despite my ping-ponging emotions with Drew from earlier that morning and the bizarre, intimate moment that followed. But then, I usually held it together. My motto was save your drama for your llama.

I checked my cell phone on the way out of town, as I wasn’t getting any reception at the house, and saw a text message from Elizabeth. Their plane was set to touch down at 4:15 p.m., but I needn’t rush to pick them up because they would get a rental car. She finished the text with we love you, girl, and that made me smile.

The message helped, and knowing that Elizabeth and Sandra were coming gave me a sense of calm reassurance, even if it was only temporary. I felt like I was surrounded by strangers. These brothers who I thought I knew were turning out to be a mystery wrapped in an enigma, slathered in conundrum flavored cream cheese.

Since Roscoe and I only had each other as company for the hour drive home, I encouraged my youngest brother—who was now six-foot-two—to dish the dirt on the older ones.

Except, there was no dirt to dish.

“So, Jethro is a park ranger? How’d that happen?” I briefly wondered why my mother hadn’t said anything about it. Even though she rarely spoke about my brothers during our daily phone calls, Jethro cleaning himself up and becoming a park ranger seemed like it would’ve been pretty big news.

“It’s awesome, right?” Roscoe’s smile was immediate and proud. “It’s a pretty funny story. Jethro was…well, you know. He was stealing cars and partying, but he was smart about it. That boy was arrested so many times, but he was never charged. He was damn lucky.”

“I remember. The day I left for college he was coming home from lockup.” I could still recall wondering whether I should wait for him to get home or just head out without saying goodbye. I waited until supper, when Billy arrived and told me that Jethro was at the Dragon—one of three biker bars near this part of the parkway—drinking with his buddies and celebrating his criminal success.

Disgusted, I’d left right then.

“Well, Drew beat the shit out of Jethro when he caught him trying to steal his 1971 Aermacchi Harley-Davidson Turismo Veloce.”

My mouth fell open, partly because an image of Drew straddling a classic Harley flashed through my mind and partly because the story was downright shocking.

I stared at Roscoe. “Did Drew press charges?”

“Nah. He told Jethro that he would pull some strings and get him a job as a park ranger if he promised to stop with the illegal bullshit.”

“And he did?”

“Yep. Well, mostly. Jethro never was in very deep with the Iron Order, so he was able to extract himself pretty quickly.”

The Iron Order was the biker club that controlled Green Valley and the surrounding counties. The Dragon Biker Bar was their hangout. At one point, I remembered Momma being afraid that Jethro would become one of them, but he never was much of a joiner.

Roscoe paused for a minute as he navigated a series of impressive switchbacks on the mountain road. In order to reach Knoxville, we needed to go up one of the mountains then down the other side.

When the turns were behind us, he picked up the story. “Jethro had to start at the bottom of the ladder and work up to the job he has now. He got his GED then went and got his AS degree, and finally, last year he got the job as a ranger. Now he and Drew work together all the time.”

He then spent the next several minutes waxing poetic about Drew and Jethro. From the way Roscoe described it, they were preventing forest fires and protecting the endangered animals, and working toward every other kind of altruistic endeavor.

I detected a hint of envy in Roscoe’s voice. It seemed that Drew had a number-one fan, and that fan was Roscoe Winston.

“That’s great,” I said in all sincerity. “That’s really great.” It was great. It was super great. And it probably meant the world to my mother. I couldn’t believe she’d never said anything about it.

“Drew is…he’s the man. He’s really quiet. I think it’s because he doesn’t want to show other people up or make them feel like they’re less than him. Did you know his father is a senator in Texas? He doesn’t talk about it much, but he comes from money.”

I thought about this information for a bit, marinated in it. Drew didn’t seem all that quiet to me. In fact, he seemed downright chatty. Rather than contradict Roscoe’s assertion regarding Drew’s propensity toward reticence, I decided to keep my observations to myself.

“Roscoe, our grandparents had money too, but that doesn’t make one person better than another.” Our grandfather on our mother’s side had been a politician and a very wealthy man.

“I know, but Drew has made all the difference. He helped Duane, Beauford, and Cletus with the paperwork for their auto shop, and he even helped them buy the place. He’s part owner, but he doesn’t see fit to interfere.”

“Did you say their auto shop? They own the shop?”

Roscoe nodded and gave me a big grin, his blue eyes flickering to mine then back to the road, “Hell, yeah, it’s theirs: Winston Brothers Auto Shop. Momma helps them with the books. It’s doing real good. They have a hook-up on old, busted classic cars. They fix them then sell them in Nashville for big bucks to people in the music biz.”

This revelation was surprising, but also freaking fantastic. I felt a surge of pride for the twins and my sweet brother Cletus. Good for them.

Annoyingly, I also felt a good deal of gratitude toward Drew. I decided to push those feelings to the side. If the shop was doing well, then Drew was well compensated for his investment.

“What about Billy? He was in a suit this morning. What’s that about?”

“Oh, Billy’s doing his thing at the mill. He’s doing real good too, now that he no longer has to clean up messes.”

“Clean up messes?”

“Well, you know he was always bailing Jethro out of jail and trying to keep the rest of us out of trouble—not that he needed to worry about me.”

I thought back to my childhood recollections of Billy. Of my brothers, he was the most absent and withdrawn. Most men started working at the mill as soon as they reached seventeen. Billy started working there at sixteen. I was surprised he was still at home since he seemed to wish for escape even more than I did.

I also thought about his chilly reception of me earlier in the day and his comment about my being gone for eight years. I hadn’t expected all my brothers to welcome me back with open arms. I was just a little surprised that Billy—who’d never seemed all that interested in me when we were kids—appeared to be the only one vexed by my long absence.

“What’s Billy doing down there that he has to wear a suit?”

“He’s got some fancy title, regional director of mill operations or something like that. He’s been there forever, and you know how smart he is. He could have done anything; maybe even become a proper engineer if he’d wanted to.”

Regional director of mill operations sounded very important. I wasn’t exactly sure what that encompassed, but apparently, it meant that he needed to wear a suit to work every day. Which, on my father’s side of the family, was like becoming the president of the United States.

I managed to get Roscoe to tell me about himself with some prodding. He tried to shrug off his accomplishments like they were no big deal. They were a big deal.

Roscoe was finishing his last year at the University of Tennessee, majoring in biology. I knew he was attending community college two years ago, as it was one of the few pieces of information my mother had shared about my brothers. However, I didn’t know that he’d transferred to the state university sometime during the last eighteen months.

“That’s so great, Roscoe. I’m….” I swallowed because I was going to say I’m really proud of you, but then stopped myself. I didn’t feel like I had the right to say those words since I’d left him and the rest of my family nearly a decade ago. Instead, I finished the thought with, “I’m really happy for you. I’m happy for all of you. You’re all doing so great.”

“Yeah….” Roscoe nodded, glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, his tone teasing. “Now that you see we’re not a bunch of skunks, maybe you’ll come visit more often.”

I blushed, embarrassed and ashamed of the years I’d been gone. Even though he was poking fun, his words hit a nerve.

I sighed, looked out the window. “Sure—if ya’ll want me to.”

“Of course we want you to. Don’t be stupid.”

“You could come visit me in Chicago. It’s a pretty great city.”

“Isn’t it cold all the time? Sleet and snow and forty below zero wind chill and all that mess?”

“No, not all the time.” I glanced at him and pressed my lips together to keep from smirking. “Just nine months out of the year.”

Roscoe laughed and shook his head. “How do you stand it? Don’t you miss four solid seasons? And the mountains, I can’t wait to finish college and move back here. I don’t think there’s a more beautiful place on earth.”

As if on cue, we passed a lookout turnoff with a particularly breathtaking view of the Smoky Mountains. They were ensconced in their typical blue mist and descended fold upon fold to a green tree-lined valley. I had to admit, it was beautiful country.

Instead of vocalizing this, I said, “Well, you haven’t been many places on earth. You might change your mind once you go out there and check out what it has to offer.”

“Nah.” He shook his head and shocked the crud out of me by saying, “I spent a summer hiking all over Europe. Old buildings don’t do much for me, but I can see why other people think they’re pretty. I took a semester off school and did a road trip from New York to Los Angeles. We went the long way and saw the Redwood Forest, which is probably the second most beautiful place on earth. Then I flew to New Zealand. That’s where the third most beautiful place on earth is, Doubtful Sound.”

He paused for a minute because we’d come to a fork in the road and a stop sign.

I couldn’t help my blurted question. “How did you afford all that?”

He looked at me, his mouth quirking to the side. “It wasn’t all that expensive because I went with Drew, and he had to go for work. He had the option of going by car or flying to each location, so he picked the road trip and took me with him. He thought it would be good for me to see the country, see what’s out there. He said I could go anywhere and be anything. I don’t think I believed him until we went on that trip.”

Roscoe and I stared at each other for a long moment until I blurted another question. “Why would he do that? Why would he do any of this—helping Jethro, the twins, Duane, you—what’s in it for him?”

My brother narrowed his eyes at me, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Family, I think.” Then his eyes lost focus and he frowned. “It’s not really my place to say.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged, looked left and right for oncoming cars, and took the road to Green Valley. “It means just that. Drew’s got his reasons, and I don’t tell other people’s stories.”

We made it back to the house after 2:00 p.m. and immediately set to work rearranging the furniture in the den. We moved out a big wooden desk that had belonged to my maternal grandfather as well as several tables, the vintage sofa and matching chair, an old freestanding globe, and other various antique pieces. The majority of the items had been inherited by my mother from her parents, and she’d kept them all in pristine condition.

My momma came from money. She was an only child. The house we grew up in and all the land surrounding it had belonged to her parents. My grandfather died before I was born, but my grandmother died when I was ten—quite suddenly, from a stroke—and left the house and all her wealth to my mother.

This all happened two years after my parents separated. My grandmother also left trusts for each of us, which have been controlled by Momma, and which we can’t access until our thirtieth birthdays. I didn’t know how much money was in the trust, as I’d never given it much thought, but I did know that the money was why my father was always trying to re-insert himself into our lives.

We left two recliners in the room, all the bookshelves, and a side table. I was determined that one of us would be with her at all times, and the leather recliners were big and comfortable.

Once we were certain that the room would now accommodate her hospital bed, equipment, and the sleeping cot, we took a short break to have some lemonade and a sandwich. Well, I had lemonade. Roscoe had a beer.

Our timing was close to perfect; the transport arrived just after 4:30 p.m. Momma had slept through the entire trip. I knew she was likely on an impressive regimen of painkillers and sleeping aids. They were usually called quality of life meds, which really meant end of life meds.

Momma woke up just briefly when she was wheeled into the den. Her eyes were foggy and unfocused as she glanced around the room.

She asked, “Where are Mother’s things? Daddy’s desk?”

I leaned over her bed and held her hand. “We moved them out so we could keep you on the first floor but also give you some privacy.”

She nodded then stared at me. “Ashley, I have to tell you something, and it’s really important.”

I squeezed her hand and braced myself. “I’m listening, Momma.”

“The only thing that helps a baby through teething pain is bourbon on the gums.” She then closed her eyes and was asleep again within seconds.

I stared at her for a long moment, replaying the words of wisdom in my head, and came to the conclusion that she must’ve been half-dreaming.

“Hi, I’m Marissa.”

Still a little bewildered, I turned and blinked at the very pretty, twenty-something woman holding her hand out to me. She was in scrubs and comfy shoes, and was obviously a nurse. She wore her dark brown hair in long, small braids down her back, and her dark brown eyes were warm and compassionate.

I took her hand. “Hi. I’m Ashley, the daughter.”

“Nice to meet you, Ashley. I’ll be your mother’s day nurse Monday through Thursday. I’ll stop in during the day. George comes on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Tina and Joe will split the night shift.”

I nodded. “Okay. Just so you know, I’m a nurse in Chicago—pediatric intensive care.”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprised delight. “I’m from Chicago! I grew up on the south side. I just moved to Knoxville two months ago.”

Roscoe cleared his throat from the place at my side where he’d suddenly appeared, drawing our attention to him.

“Hi. I’m Roscoe Winston. Pleasure to meet you, Marissa.”

I lifted an eyebrow at the way he said her name and the way he held her eyes and the way he leaned forward with just a little too much swagger and southern charm.

She smiled at him like he was a cute puppy and accepted his hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you, Roscoe.” She turned her attention back to me. “I’m going to get your mother settled and check her vitals.”

“Sure. They should have taken her to the den. It’s at the end of the hall.”

Marissa gave me a warm smile then left to find the room where Momma would be staying.

Roscoe turned his head and watched her walk away. More precisely, he watched her bottom—in baggy scrubs no less—as she walked away.

“She’s new in town. I wonder if I could show her around.”

I elbowed him in the side and gave him my best disapproving scowl.

“Ow! What did I do?”

My voice was a harsh whisper. “You’re flirting? With Momma’s nurse?”

He didn’t look at all repentant. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Why not?” I couldn’t believe him. “Why not?! Aren’t you upset about Momma?”

Roscoe flinched and appeared to be a little hurt by my words, but he held his ground. “Of course I’m upset. Don’t be stupid. But that right there is an exceptionally fine looking woman, and Momma being sick doesn’t mean that I’m blind.”

“Ugh! Men!” I shook my head and turned to leave.

Roscoe caught me by the arm and pulled me into the kitchen. “Now, hold your horses. Just you listen for a sec.”

I pulled my elbow from his grip and crossed my arms over my chest, glaring at him.

He didn’t appear to be affected by my disapproving glower. “Who is it going to hurt, me flirting with a pretty girl? Is Momma going to die faster?” I flinched, but he pressed on. “Is it going to increase her pain? Don’t give me that look, Ashley Austen Winston. You would have us all dress in black and ring bells every fifteen minutes. I’m not going to feel bad for admiring someone pretty. You were always too serious for your own good.”

What he really meant was that I was always too sensitive for my own good, and he was right. But I’d toughened up over the last eight years. I’d fallen in love twice, bludgeoned into it with all the bad sense of a girl with a user for a father, and come out the other side determined to learn from my mistakes.

I couldn’t flirt and have it mean nothing, not like Roscoe could do. It was a defect in my personality.

My neck became hot and scratchy, and I felt tears gather behind my eyes.

He seemed to see or sense that I was close to crying because he pulled me forward and wrapped me in a hug. “Don’t cry. I always hated it when you cried.”

I sniffled and squeezed my eyes shut. “You did?”

“Yes. Who do you think left you bunches of wildflowers outside your door when Jethro or the twins pissed you off?”

My arms came around his torso and I rested my head against his shoulder. “That was you? I always thought that was Momma.”

“No, dummy, that was me.”

I sucked in an unsteady breath and hugged him tighter. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He kissed my hair then pushed me back a foot so he could look into my eyes. “If you want to be miserable, there’s nothing I can do to stop you. I’m miserable about losing her too, but I’m not going to spend the next few weeks wringing my hands. I’m going to enjoy the time she has left and live life like she always wanted us to do, and that includes getting my flirt on with the scoop of chocolate ice cream that just walked in the door.”

I choked out a laugh and hit his shoulder. “Watch out, or I’ll tell Marissa you just called her a scoop of chocolate ice cream.”

He shrugged. “That’s fine with me. While you’re at it, find out what she thinks of vanilla.”

I knew Sandra and Elizabeth had arrived because I was awakened from my nap by a sound, and it wasn’t one of those damn roosters for once. It was a very specific kind of sound. It was the sound of a man crying. And the sound woke me up.

I’d been dozing, curled up on the recliner in the den next to my momma’s hospital bed. Judging by the light outside, it looked to be close to sunset. The day’s events had left me all the various kinds of tired: physically, mentally, emotionally, and knitterly.

Knitterly tired is when you’re too tired to knit. It’s a depressing and desperate place to be.

I stretched, blinked the tired haze from my eyes, and glanced around the room. A male nurse—who I guessed was Joe —was sitting in the other recliner. It had been pushed back a distance from the bed. He seemed to be reading a newspaper in the dwindling light of the window. He was older, maybe in his fifties, and looked more like an orderly than a nurse. His head was bald, his neck was thick, his shoulders were wide, and he had a tattoo of a dragon on his forearm.

Then, to my astonishment, when I turned my head the other way, I found Drew sitting in a wooden chair pulled up next to mine.

I frowned at him.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the book in his hands, which he was reading aloud. I wondered for a split second that his voice hadn’t woken me, but then I realized why. As much as I wanted everything about him to be repugnant, his voice—especially while he read—was nice. It was soothing, yet as I listened, I discovered it was also well inflected. He enriched the text as he read.

This was terribly inconvenient, as I’d promised myself I would leave Tennessee with no admiration for Drew Runous.

“‘Just that,’ said the fox. ‘To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.’ Drew glanced up, his eyes immediately finding mine. They flickered over my face, taking in my sleepy appearance. Then, with no visible change in his expression, he returned his attention to the book. “‘But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.’”

He stopped reading, his eyes lingering on the page before he closed the book, though he held his place with a finger. I studied him unabashedly, likely because I was still half-asleep, and it didn’t occur to me that staring at him was weird.

Drew’s gaze lifted to where Momma lay asleep in the bed. His expression was warm and affectionate, and his voice gentle as he said, “Bethany, Ashley is awake.”

I started, blinked at him, then looked at my mother just in time to see her open her eyes. She lifted her hand and gave me a little wave.

“Hi, Baby,” she said with a smile. “Did we wake you up?”

“No. Something else did…I think.” My voice was raspy from sleep.

Just then, the sound of a sob sprang into the room, and I remembered that men were crying someplace in the house. This, of course, reminded me that Sandra had arrived.

Momma laughed lightly, her grin growing as she looked at me. “I like your friends. Sandra is a hoot.”

I returned her smile and reached for her hand. “How long have you been up?”

“Oh…a few hours I guess. We’re good in here if you want to go say hi and visit. Your doctor friend, Elizabeth, made everyone ravioli. It was real good. She said her husband owns an Italian restaurant.”

“Her mother-in-law owns the restaurant.” I frowned because my mother knew all about Elizabeth. I’d told her all about how Elizabeth had grown up with Nico Moretti—now a famous comedian—and how they’d been married last year in Las Vegas.

“No matter who owns it, she knows how to make really fine Italian food.”

“It was really good.” This came from the nurse in the corner.

My attention shifted to him and I gave him a little wave. “Hi, you must be Joe. I’m Ashley.”

He nodded, smiled. “Hey, Ashley. You’re the nurse, right?”

“Yep. That’s me.”

“Let me know if you have any questions. I just checked your momma; she’s doing real good.” Joe’s brown eyes shifted from mine to where my mother was sitting up. He gave her a warm smile.

“Thank you, I will.” I said, considering this Joe who was a nurse with a tattoo of a dragon.

“You should go thank her for making dinner for your family,” Momma said. “I know she wants to see you.”

I nodded, distracted by Drew and the suspicion that my mother was losing her memory. Or rather, I suspected the pain medication was making her recollections fuzzy. I shifted to stand and noticed that a blanket had been placed over me.

I frowned at the blanket then at Drew.

It seemed everything was earning my frown of confusion.

“Go on, get.” Momma prompted, squeezing my hand then letting it go.

Drew didn’t move as I stood to depart, so I was forced to walk past him in the tight space made by our chairs, my bottom brushing his shoulder. Nor did he meet my eyes. Instead, he opened the book, which I recognized as The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, and started again where he’d left off—with talk of taming and need.

I shook off the lingering Drew-disquiet, and my stomach rumbled as I walked. It was a reminder that food was needed in order to function, and thankfully, the smell of good food—garlic and fried onions—was wafting toward me. I followed the smell of Italian food and the sound of crying through the kitchen and into the dining room.

The scene that greeted me was not unlike something from a Dr. Phil episode.

Sandra had Cletus and the twins arranged in the family room—which was just off the dining room—and was holding some kind of impromptu counseling session. Her face was clear of expression, neither cool nor warm but rather accepting, open, and interested.

The loud sobbing, I realized almost immediately, was coming from Cletus. He was sitting in the chair closest to Sandra, and his face was buried in his hands. She was rubbing his back, but her attention was affixed to Beau, who also looked like he’d been crying at one point, but now he seemed to have his expressions of sorrow under control.

I didn’t want to interrupt them. Sandra was an excellent psychiatrist, though she usually treated only pediatric patients. It was obvious that my brothers were receiving something from her that they needed, some kind of catharsis. This was her modus operandi.

A throat cleared behind me and caused me to jump. I turned and found Elizabeth standing at my shoulder, an affectionate and sympathetic smile on her face.

“Hey, girl,” she said.

“Hey,” I said.

Then she pulled me into a wrap-and-hold hug.

Elizabeth was shorter than me by about four inches, but she was also curvy and soft, and her hugs felt like being surrounded by a warm, beautiful cloud. Adding to this affect was the paleness of her skin, the golden blonde of her hair, and the ethereal blue of her irises. We gave and received comfort for a short moment before we were interrupted by Sandra’s voice, which was closer than I’d expected.

“Ashley Winston.”

Sandra was standing next to us, staring at me. She was smiling—from her big green eyes to her flaming red hair to her large white teeth—but it wasn’t at all sympathetic. It was just a big, old, happy smile.

She launched herself at us, her arms coming around both Elizabeth and me, and kissed me on my cheek and then my chin.

“It is so good to smell your hair right now,” Sandra said. Of course this made us both laugh, because who says that?

She squeezed us, causing Elizabeth to squeak. “Sandra…I…can’t…breathe….”

“No matter.” Sandra released her vice grip and reached for my hand. “Where is your room? We have some sharing to do.”

I glanced over her shoulder at my brothers. Duane gave me a taut smile.

Bizarre.

“Sandra, I don’t want to cry. Please don’t make me cry.”

She shook her head, wrinkling her nose as though my request were silly. It was not silly. She had this superpower where people were absolutely compelled to spill their guts, myself included. She made burdens lighter, but she did this by forcing people to face truths, which usually resulted in crying.

I didn’t want to face truths. I wanted to steal a few moments with my friends, saturate myself in the promise of my comfortable, contented life back in Chicago, and wrap my brain and heart in the bliss of distraction.

Truth was overrated and smelled like onions.

Bliss was underappreciated and smelled like chloroform.

“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.” She grumbled this statement and tugged on my hand. “Come on, where is your room? We brought you presents.”

I hesitated only briefly.

“It’s upstairs.”

Sandra and Elizabeth followed me after a detour to the front door. I saw Elizabeth grab a duffle bag and Sandra a gift sack, purple tissue paper spilling out the top. Once inside my room, I sat on my bed and turned to face them.

Elizabeth took a seat on the bed, placed the duffle bag between us, and unzipped it. “We brought you some things—just some essentials and—and some other things.”

Sandra hovered by the door. She was surveying the room, I could tell. Maybe she was making a mental tally of my dysfunctions based on the number of ceramic unicorn figurines on my bookshelf. (FYI, there were four of them.)

“You didn’t have to bring me anything.” I gave Elizabeth a reassuring smile. “I’m really fine.”

“No, you’re not. You’re in shock, and you haven’t yet processed the fact that your mother is dying.” Sandra leveled me with a sensible, matter-of-fact gaze.

I braced myself for the truths.

Instead, she surprised me by sparing me. “But that’s okay. You’ll adjust. You’ll figure it out. Or you won’t. If you can’t do it on your own, we’ll help you figure it out. Either way you’re covered.”

My eyes lifted to the ceiling then lowered back to her; I was confused. “Then why did you instigate a therapy session with my brothers?”

She shrugged. “Because I don’t know if they have an adequate support system in place to help them work through their grief, especially since your father….” Sandra paused when she saw my shoulders stiffen at the mention of my father.

When you have a despicable person as a parent, I truly believe you can’t escape hating any part of yourself that resembles him or her. Whether it’s a physical similarity, a talent, a propensity, or an inclination that you share, all commonalities are abhorrent to you.

I look like my father. I have his thick dark hair and bright blue eyes. I have my mother’s nose, but I have my father’s wide, full mouth and his height. I am his child, and I hate the man. I hate that I look like him.

My father is a gifted musician. Despite my love of singing and playing the piano as a child and teenager, as a young adult I rejected those creative outlets.

My father is a great dancer. I take pride in my corny dance moves.

My father is a talented con man and a charmer. I am honest to a fault and embrace the discord caused by my bluntly spoken opinions.

It’s hard to find joy in gifts—or potential gifts—when they’re tainted by association.

This is something that people with kind, well-meaning parents have difficulty grasping. It’s not about self-pity and it’s not self-loathing. It’s a desperate desire to disassociate oneself from evil.

“Sorry,” Sandra said, “I know you don’t like to talk about him.” Her tone was repentant, but she looked a tad frustrated as she gestured to the unzipped duffle bag. “Enough of this feelings stuff, look at your presents.”

“Go on then.” Elizabeth’s mouth hooked to the side. “Dig in.”

I opened the mouth of the bag wider and began pulling out items.

I found the pillow from my bed, candles, chocolate, tea, wine, more wine, my two favorite paperback romance novels, new yarn—and a vibrator.

“What…?” I looked at the vibrator; blinked at it, and I lifted my eyes to Sandra’s. “What’s this?”

“It’s a vibrator. Haven’t you ever seen a vibrator before?”

“Yes, Sandra, I’ve seen a vibrator before. Why in tarnation did you bring me a vibrator?”

“Well, isn’t it obvious?”

“No.”

“It’ll help,” she said simply.

I stared at her for a long moment then rolled my eyes. “It figures that you would bring me a vibrator. You are completely wack-a-doodle-doo.”

“Wait a minute, if you must know, it was Janie’s idea.” She raised her hands in surrender like she wanted to keep me from launching into a tirade. Sandra was referring to our mutual friend and knitting group compatriot, Janie Sullivan. Janie was an Amazonian Princess-sized walking, talking version of Wikipedia. She was also completely oblivious to the obvious. This combination made her infuriatingly endearing.

“She read a study—which she shared with me—about how going through the death of a…of a parent is less stressful for people who are married or in a serious relationship, presumably because of the comfort they receive from their significant other. Part of that, Janie reasoned, and I agreed, is definitely orgasms. Also, I packed you condoms—lots of them, all different sizes. Believe me when I say that having the different sizes comes in really handy. No pun intended.”

I sputtered for a few seconds then managed to finally say, “You’re off your rocker, and Janie is nuts. You’re both cracked nuts.”

“I would have brought a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam, but this one,” Sandra indicated to Elizabeth with her head, “thought it would be awkward.”

I interjected, “Wack-a-doodle-doo!”

Just then, a rooster crowed in the yard, as though to echo my insult. We ignored it.

Elizabeth crossed her arms in a defensive stance. “It would be awkward. And, technically, it was larger than the allowable size for checked bags and carry-on luggage.”

“I think they must make special accommodations for life-sized cut-outs. I mean, how else would you be able to cart them across the country? How do you think Darth Vader makes it to all those kids’ birthday parties?”

“They’re mailed…via the post office.” Elizabeth’s tone was droll and her expression flat. It was obvious that they’d argued this point prior to leaving Chicago.

“We didn’t have time for the post office before we left.”

“Please don’t tell me you had a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam made.” I already knew the answer.

“Okay. I won’t tell you that we had a life-sized cut-out of Charlie Hunnam made. I also won’t tell you that he is shirtless and currently waiting for you in your apartment. Thanks for giving me those spare keys, and you’re welcome.”

Before I could respond, we were interrupted by a knock on the door. Sandra promptly turned and opened it, then shuffled backward a few steps.

Drew hovered in the doorway, filling every inch of space with his giant frame. His eyes examined my room then ended their wandering when they landed on me. He looked tense.

“Is everything okay?” I asked then stood from the bed, ready to bolt down the stairs.

“Yes. She’s resting. Duane and Beau are with her now.”

“Oh.” I relaxed a bit, breathed out a sigh. “Okay. Good.”

He watched me for a beat, his eyes never wavering from mine, then said, “I’m about to head out.”

“Okay.” I nodded and glanced briefly at Sandra. She was looking between the two of us with narrowed eyes.

The room fell quiet. The silence became an odd, stiff thing. After a long moment where Drew walked the fine line between looking and staring, he shifted his attention to Elizabeth.

“Thank you for dinner. Everything was delicious.”

“No problem.” She waved away his praise then crossed to him and reached her hand out. He accepted it and they shook. “I’ll see you tomorrow. It was nice meeting you.”

“Tomorrow?” I asked them both. “What’s tomorrow?”

Elizabeth walked back to me. “Drew and I are going to the hospital. I’d like to send your mom’s records to Dr. Peterson.”

“The oncologist?”

“Yeah, I talked to him about it before I left Chicago. Peterson is expecting the chart.”

“Why is Drew going?”

“He holds the power of attorney…right? For the release of medical records?”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” My neck itched, and I glanced at Drew. Again, he was looking at me, but this time it was a blatant stare. The intensity and vehemence in his expression caught me off guard.

“What?” I blurted, because I just couldn’t take it. My eyes flickered between Sandra and Elizabeth for help. They were both looking at Drew with thoughtful expressions. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He said the word like we were fighting, like he was throwing it at me.

I frowned at his oddness and was about to question him further when Sandra stepped in front of me.

“Will we be seeing more of you?” she asked Drew. She crossed her arms over her chest and paused. I recognized her tone as one she used when conducting an interrogation, though her question was benign enough.

Drew’s attention settled on Sandra, and he mimicked her guarded stance.

“Yes.”

“So, Charlie….”

“The name is Drew.”

Sandra ignored the correction. “How often will we be…seeing you?”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Daily.”

“Reeeeally.” Sandra lifted her chin. I could tell she was sizing him up. Heck, even Drew could tell she was sizing him up.

Neither spoke for a prolonged minute. Elizabeth and I glanced at each other, and I shrugged.

I was about to break the weird stink-eye stalemate with a suggestion that I walk Drew out—even though the thought made me strangely nervous—when Sandra said very gently, “Not all women are bad, you know. We’re not all viperous bloodsuckers. There are some good ones…like Ashley. She’s a good one. You might have noticed: the outside matches the inside.”

My mouth fell slightly open, and I shifted back a step as Drew’s eyes flickered to mine. They were such a steely cold blue that they nearly knocked me off my feet. His gaze was shuttered and hard, and his mouth was set in a firm, unhappy line.

“Good night,” he said, and then he walked away, his steps audible as he descended the stairs.