Momma was the hospice patient who cried wisdom-wolf.

“Ashley, where are you, honey? I’ve got something really important to tell you.”

I was sitting in the recliner by her bed, knee deep in my third reading of Catch 22. I’d just given her a bath a half hour ago and helped her dress. She was weak and sleepy from the effort. The strain in her tone surprised me because I thought she was asleep.

I immediately set the book aside and reached for her hand. “I’m right here. What is it, Momma?”

“Come closer.” She squeezed my fingers, so I stood from the chair and leaned over the bed so she could see me better.

“Ashley, you need to know, of all the things you wear, your expression is the most important.” Momma said this with fevered earnestness. I gave her a gentle smile and she continued, her eyes losing focus. “And deodorant…always wear deodorant…and clean underwear.”

This had become a usual occurrence. Over the last week and a half since she’d come home, my mother would get this look of urgency in her eyes and tell me to come close, insisting that she had some grave, important bit of wisdom to pass on. And when I leaned in close, it was always something peculiar, random, or mundane.

It didn’t matter who else was in the room. Her coworker friends from the library stopped by for a visit, during which my momma urgently told me, “The angleworms aren’t anxious for the fish to bite.”

Her minister dropped in to check on the family, and Momma wouldn’t let go of my hand until she’d said, “You’ll lose your grip if you put too much spit on your hands.”

One time she said, “When your kids tell you they have tummy aches, ask them if they’ve pooped yet. It’s usually just constipation.”

Another time it was, “Happiness and rheumatism keep getting bigger if you tell people about them.”

And another, “Fear don’t count if you really want something.”

I couldn’t figure out if she was pulling my leg with this stuff or if she was serious, so I decided to tell her corny jokes. Stuff like:

“How does the ocean say hello to the shore… it gives it a little wave.”

“How can you tell the sun doesn’t feel good… it’s not so hot.”

I needed to hear her laugh. When she laughed, it felt like it was okay for me to laugh—and I needed to laugh.

This time, however, I didn’t tell her a joke, because her eyes were hazy and unfocused.

I nodded, reached my hand up to her cheek, and brushed a few hairs from her temple. “I will remember to wear a pleasant expression as well as deodorant and clean underwear at all times. I promise.”

“Also, baby, you need to stop hovering. When was the last time you left this room?”

I shushed her. “I’m here to take care of you and spend time with you. This is where I want to be.”

She grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut, her breathing short and rattled. I blinked away the stinging moisture in my eyes as I watched her struggle through the wave of pain. Her fingers gripped mine like a lifeline.

I studied her morphine drip and found it full. This was distressing, as Marissa had replaced the bag several hours ago.

“Momma, if you’re in pain, you need to use your button.” I kept my voice low and temperate.

She shook her head. “It makes me feel groggy. I don’t want to sleep…not yet.”

I inhaled a shaky breath and gritted my teeth. She moaned. It was a horrible sound and made me feel completely helpless. Movement at the door caught my attention. I looked up to find Duane and Beau hovering in the doorway.

Their eyes were wide as their gazes moved from Momma to me then back again.

“What’s wrong? What can we do?” Beau stepped forward and placed his hand on my mother’s forehead.

“She’s in a lot of pain,” I explained, and then I looked at Duane. “Will you get her some ice chips?”

Duane hesitated for a moment then disappeared. I decided that I would move a cooler into the room for her ice chips, just in case she needed them and I was by myself.

“What about the medicine?” Beau was all restrained energy, his expression mirroring the helplessness I felt.

“She….” I was going to explain that she wasn’t pressing the button for the morphine pump, but instead I swallowed. It felt wrong talking about her like she wasn’t in the room. I squeezed my mother’s hand. “Momma, will you please take your medicine? Press the button.”

She shook her head, her face pale, her mouth a tight line.

Moments like this made me wish desperately for the advice and comfort of my friends. Saying goodbye to Sandra and Elizabeth had been really difficult.

They’d stayed for three days. While Sandra and Elizabeth were here, I’d gratefully allowed Sandra to become the emotional center of the household while I retreated into the safety and comfort of my eReader and novels. She’d stayed up late, talking to one or more of the boys—or, rather, men—helping them work through and come to terms with the painful reality of losing their mother.

She’d also helped me, as had Elizabeth, by encouraging me to go on walks, help with dinner, take a shower…brush my teeth.

It was now a week after their departure, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bathed. It was definitely on a day that started with a T. I couldn’t bring myself to leave the den. I couldn’t stand the thought of Momma needing me and me not being there.

Beau’s eyes were somewhat wild as they moved over her face then down the length of the bed. His attention focused on the corded white remote with the red button on the end, the button my mother refused to press.

Beau picked it up and pushed the button several times. Then he looked up at me, his expression a strange mixture of defiant and apologetic.

I sighed and closed my eyes, grateful that he’d done it, because I hadn’t been ready to take the choice away from her.

“Is everything okay?”

I opened my eyes to find Jethro and Cletus walking into the room. Duane was behind them holding a cup filled with ice chips.

Jethro stood next to Beau and frowned at the remote in his hand then he looked at me. “What happened?”

I shrugged. When I finally spoke, my voice was shaky and my chin was wobbling, but I didn’t cry. “Momma wouldn’t press the button.”

My mother’s tight expression was easing, her jaw unclenching, and her grip on me was growing slack.

Jethro nodded, looking grave. “Ash, why don’t you take a break?”

I shook my head, my eyes on Momma. “I’m fine. I was just reading a book.”

“Ash….”

Something about Jethro’s tone, the way he said my name, made me look up. His eyes bored into mine, but they were compassionate. “Go take a shower.”

I swallowed my automatic decline and nodded, gently laying my mother’s limp hand on the bed. Jethro’s grave expression, the set of his jaw, the hardness in his brown eyes told me I wasn’t going to refuse his “suggestion.”

Mindlessly, I went upstairs and quickly did as instructed. But I was really just going through the motions. Nothing about it felt cleansing or necessary. My heart was still downstairs, twisted up and bruised and refusing pain medication.

After drying off and changing into mostly clean yoga pants and a black T-shirt that didn’t smell, I descended the stairs, intent on getting back to the den and my now permanent spot in the recliner by Momma’s bed. I was going through my mental checklist: How much had she eaten today? How much had she slept?

I turned the corner to the den and caught the tail end of a hushed conversation. The hallway was clogged with six Winston boys and one Drew Runous.

“…Like I said, don’t worry about it, Billy. You all have enough on your mind without having to think about the bills.” Drew’s voice was infinitely calm, yet he also sounded uncomfortable.

“You’re paying them yourself.” Billy’s voice was a tad frustrated. “That’s not right, Drew.”

“I’ll reimburse myself later.”

“No you won’t. You’ll just pay for everything.” I peeked around the doorframe and saw that Billy didn’t look upset; in fact, he looked grateful and good-naturedly irritated. “I called the bank and checked the schedule. I know you’ve already covered the car payment and the electric bill for this month and next.”

Drew sighed. “I don’t want to argue about this, Billy.”

Billy laughed lightly. “Are we arguing?”

“Hey, Ash,” Jethro said.

My eyes flickered to my oldest brother, who was frowning as he held my gaze. In fact, the lot of them were all frowning and standing a little straighter and stiffer. Drew, however, wasn’t looking at me at all; his attention was affixed to the wall behind Billy’s head.

Sandra and Elizabeth’s worries about Drew had proved to be completely unfounded. He hadn’t made any advances of any sort, nor had he subjected me to any further Nietzsche quotes. We hadn’t even engaged in any stink-eye stalemates.

Although, to be fair, it’s hard to stare at someone who isn’t there or who won’t make eye contact. Drew visited Momma, but he seemed to have a talent for only coming by when I was elsewhere or asleep. For my part, I was noticing him less and less, even when he showed up hot and sweaty after a workout.

“Hi.” I gave them a tight-lipped smile and a little wave. “What’s going on?”

“Are you hungry?” This question came from Cletus. “Cause Drew brought food.”

I gave sweet Cletus a smile and shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

“You didn’t eat breakfast,” Billy said. He was scowling at me.

I thought about this, realized he was right.

Not eating breakfast was very atypical behavior for me. I’d never, ever, ever, ever been the girl who skipped meals. In fact, I liked to plan my workdays and vacations around food. I was a foodie through and through. I didn’t mind more junk in the trunk (or up front) if it meant cookies every day. But over the last week, nothing had tasted good.

“Okay….” I hesitated, glanced at the door to the den.

Surprising me, Drew came over to where I was standing in the doorway and placed his hands on my waist like he wasn’t going to let me pass. He captured my gaze with his; then his attention flickered between my eyes and my mouth as he said quietly, “She’s asleep, Sugar. You need a break. Come eat something.”

His closeness, his warm hands on my body, the way he was looking at me with his steely eyes, the softness of his tone when he called me Sugar—it all pushed at some part of me that had been dormant for days. I elbowed the awakening sensations aside, wanting to focus on my mother.

“What if she wakes up?” I challenged. “I don’t want her to be alone.”

“I’ll sit with Momma,” Beau said sheepishly. His expression told me he felt some guilt for forcing pain meds on her. I wanted to tell him I was glad he’d done it. As soon as the thought entered my head, I felt guilty.

“I’ll sit with her too,” Roscoe volunteered.

Jethro stepped forward and tugged on my elbow, pulling me out of Drew’s hold, which tightened before he let me go. “Come on, Ash,” my brother pleaded. “It’s fried chicken and mashed potatoes. Maybe you could call your friend Sandra and have a chat.”

I let Jethro lead me into the kitchen, and the entire Winston brood—plus Drew, minus Beau and Roscoe—followed.

“I can’t, actually. My phone doesn’t get reception out here, there’s no house phone, and there’s no Internet, so I can’t use Skype.” I said this flatly, without recrimination.

“Why don’t you use Momma’s cell?”

“I can’t find it. It wasn’t with her things when she came back from the hospital.” The situation was not easily fixable so I’d decided to do nothing about it. None of the houses in Green Valley had Internet unless they had a satellite dish. There was no point in asking for a satellite hookup since I wasn’t staying very long.

“You can use my phone,” Jethro offered. “Or Billy’s, or any of them.”

I shrugged. “Nah. That’s all right.” I didn’t really have the energy to think about it.

“You haven’t talked to your friends all week?” Duane moved to the cabinet and grabbed a stack of plates. “That don’t seem right. Don’t y’all see each other every week?”

I nodded. “Sometimes I meet them for lunch at the hospital during the week. But, yeah, Tuesday is the day we all get together. We meet up and knit and crochet, and of course we talk.”

“Tomorrow is Tuesday.” Cletus placed a pile of forks and knives on the counter. “You’re going to miss your time if we can’t get you on the Internet.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I glanced around the kitchen, not feeling particularly invested in the conversation. My eyes landed on Drew and found him standing off to one side, removed from everyone else, looking at his cell phone as if he were reading a text. For some random reason, I wondered who his cell phone company was.

“Hey, Ash, Momma’s talking about someone named Jackson.” Roscoe said this from the doorway. “Do you know who she means? She keeps asking if you’re out with Jackson.”

“Is she awake?” I moved toward the doorway, but Roscoe blocked my path.

“No, Ash. You need to eat. She’s not really awake, just talking in her sleep, I think.”

“She’s not talking about Jack Jackson James, is she—that little twerp who followed you around?” Billy asked this as he put napkins at the place settings on the table.

“He wasn’t a twerp. He was my best friend.” I crossed my arms over my chest, but felt only a slight twinge of defensiveness.

Jackson and I had been best friends all through school partly because I’d never been very good at making friends with other girls. He and I just got along so well because we were both oddball social outcasts. In my experience growing up in small Hicksville nowhere Tennessee, little girls were mean, adolescent girls were cruel, and teenage girls were ruthless—but that was probably true everywhere.

Plus, Jackson James was the sweetest, kindest, most amazing boy in the entire world...until the end of our senior year when he dumped me.

I was stunned when that happened. I wasn’t in love with Jackson—not in the passionate or romantic way that books and movies tell you is real—but I had come to rely on him. He’d been my first everything: my first kiss, my first boyfriend, my first first. And when he dumped me just before college, he cut off all communication. I was so devastated over the loss of my best friend that it felt like I’d lost a part of myself.

Over the years, the feeling of loss had dwindled to a slight ache, mostly related to nostalgia. I’d come to view him as another example—in a long line of examples—of why men were as trustworthy and reliable as tampons made of sand.

“Oh, please.” Duane rolled his eyes. “Jackson James is an asshole. I still don’t know why you gave him the time of day. You could have had any guy in a hundred-mile radius, and you didn’t give anyone a second look except that dipshit—and he was a scrawny little bastard. Didn’t he play something stupid like the clarinet or something?”

I gritted my teeth. “It was the oboe, and he was really good.” For some bizarre reason my gaze searched out Drew’s and found him watching me. When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Therefore, I did.

Jethro grumbled as he placed the utensils around the table. “Real men play instruments with strings, like a guitar or a bass.”

“Or the drums. Those got no strings,” added Cletus.

“He just wanted to get in your pants,” Duane said and shook his head, obviously having worked himself into a temper of disgust for my childhood best friend.

“Duane Faulkner Winston.” Jethro’s voice held a hint of warning. “Quit being ugly. That was disrespectful. Apologize to Ash.”

Momma had given each of us her favorite authors’ surnames as our middle names. Mine was fine, Ashley Austen Winston for Jane Austen. But I felt a little sorry for Billy, because his full name was William Shakespeare Winston.

Duane placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ash. I didn’t say it to be mean. It’s just that everyone in town wanted to get in your pants, and that guy was the worst. It’s rough having a beauty queen as a sister.”

“Lots of guys to beat up,” Billy mumbled under his breath as he finished placing the napkins.

I frowned at Billy and could feel my neck heat with embarrassment, but I addressed Duane’s apology. “It’s okay. I know you weren’t trying to be mean. But Jackson really was my friend. I knew him when we were kids.”

“You mean you felt sorry for him,” Duane insisted. “He was a reject. You were the only one who was nice to him.”

I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead, feeling abruptly tired. “I think I’m going to go lay down.”

“But you haven’t eaten,” Cletus argued from behind me.

“I’m sorry…I’m just not very hungry.” I was already walking toward the hallway that led back to the den.

When silence followed, I thought I was home free. But then I felt a hand catch my wrist and pull me down the hall in the opposite direction of the den.

“I said….”

“I heard you.” Drew’s voice was like tempered steel, his eyes silver and flashing, and he had rendered me momentarily speechless. His presence was overwhelming. Despite my various states of exhaustion, I couldn’t resist checking out his well-formed backside as he led me through the family room, out the front door, and onto the porch.

Once there, he let me go, but he stood between the door and me, his arms crossed over his chest, his face grim. Then, he stalked toward me.

I blinked at him, at the door, at the brightness of the early evening sunlight. My brain told me it had been more than a week since I’d been outside. When my brain also told me that I needed to pull myself together by voluntarily taking showers, eating three meals a day, and finding a way to keep in regular contact with my friends in Chicago—basically, to rejoin the land of the living—I told my brain to hush.

Drew was glaring at me, each of his steps bringing us closer, and his jaw was set. I mimicked his stance, though I backed up as he advanced. I’m sure the effect was pathetic. I was tired. I lacked the physical and mental energy to argue with anyone.

However, it seemed that my body did not lack the energy required to become hot and flustered at finding myself suddenly alone with Drew.

“You’re sleeping on the cot in the den every night, aren’t you?” His words sounded accusatory, and his jaw ticked.

I scrunched my nose at him, taking another step away. “Yes. I am.”

“I told you that you and your brothers would take shifts. I don’t want you sleeping in there every night. You need to take better care of yourself.” His tone was straddling the line between angry and agitated. He stalked closer.

I shrugged, my back hitting the porch post. I couldn’t retreat further.

“Fine,” I said.

I’d learned, growing up, that if I said fine, people usually left me alone because they thought they’d won. Then, I ignored their wishes and did whatever I wanted to do. This approach also worked well with physicians when they got a bee in their boxers.

I could sit tight, say fine, wait for the narcissists to tire themselves out, then go back to my business; or I could try to fight back. Fighting back never worked. It was like trying to hold back a bursting levy with duct tape and a plucky can-do attitude. Better just to let the tide wash over you and ride out the egomaniac storm.

Drew was now two feet away. “You say fine, but I know you’re going to go back in there and sleep on that cot again tonight.”

I gave him my stone face. This wasn’t any of his business. I wasn’t his business. What I did or didn’t do wasn’t his business. But for some reason, my brothers and my momma had invited the entitled Dr. Runous into their lives and given him the reins.

I could do nothing about that, but I didn’t have to like it.

Brow furrowed, mouth stern, eyes piercing, Drew stepped closer. I was forced to tilt my head backward to maintain eye contact, and my silly heart began to pound out a staccato rhythm.

Whether I liked it or not, whether it was convenient or not, Drew’s proximity affected me. I was awake to him now, fully aware. I might have been barely going through the motions and neglecting my personal hygiene; nevertheless, he was an irritating reminder that I was very much a woman, and my body responded to silver-eyed, fictionally handsome men—especially when this man seemed to make it his mission to look after my momma and brothers.

“Ash, Sugar, you need to take better care of yourself.” His voice dipped, deepened, and became soft and coaxing. He lifted his hand and pushed the hair behind my neck, his hand lingering for a beat. The back of his fingers brushed against my shoulder down to my elbow, making me fight against a shiver.

Then, abruptly, he snatched his hand back as if he hadn’t realized what he was doing.

“Don’t call me Sugar, I’m not your Sugar.” I said this dumbly and without energy, my neck hot and itchy. I had the strangest, most insane desire to press and/or rub myself against him. He was so ludicrously manly and gorgeous and swoony.

“You can’t hide the sweetness, Ashley. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not sweet.” This emerged somewhat breathlessly.

“Yes. Yes you are. You are working yourself to ragged taking care of your momma. You’re so sweet you’re giving me a stomach ache and cavities.” He said the words as though he were both impressed and aggravated, and he said them suddenly, as if he hadn’t planned to speak them out loud.

He was looking at me with the same intensity he’d employed that night in my room when Sandra was sizing him up. He was looking at me like I was sugar, like I was cake covered in frosting, and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to bite me or lick me first.

I held my breath as I watched him, wondering what he was going to do, wondering if I would stop him. His eyes grew unfocused as he gazed at my lips, our heads inching closer.

The sound of voices from inside the house broke the spell, and Drew stiffened. His gaze moved over my face like he was surprised to see me there. Drew must’ve disliked what he found because his scowl intensified and his eyes narrowed into slits. Then, abruptly, he turned away.

His tone was clipped and low as he said, “Infuriating woman.”

With that, he disappeared into the house, his exit punctuated by a slam of the screen door.

I released the breath I’d been holding and would have staggered if I hadn’t been leaning against the porch post. I decided to wait a minute to give my body time to simmer down before I went back into the house. I definitely needed to simmer down. Drew had my heart beating a million miles a minute; he made my chest hot and my belly disconcertingly—yet deliciously—achy.

After several deep breaths, I took a few steps toward the house only to be greeted by Cletus poking his head around the screen door followed by two plates of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans.

“Hey, baby sister, I have food for you.” Cletus’s warm hazel eyes and affectionate words softened my heart more than a little. He gave me an imploring smile, and his tone was imploring as he said, “Come eat with me on the swing. I’ll tell you about my auto shop.”

Just like that, faced with sweet Cletus, I surrendered.

I inhaled then released a steadying breath, my hands falling to my sides. “Sure, Cletus…that sounds nice.” I took my plate and sat on one end of the swing.