Page 72 of Make Me Yours

“I do say,” I double down, with only a slight flutter of anxiety in my stomach. I know Weaver, and I know he wouldn’t do this…don’t I?

“Then text him.” Steven crosses his arms.

“What?”

“Text Mark,” he says, nodding toward the purse slung over my good shoulder. “Ask him if he’s in jail.”

I exhale. “I’d rather not. We’re not on good terms right now.”

Steven frowns. “Why?”

“Reasons,” I say vaguely, but he’s right. Texting Mark is probably the quickest way to get to the bottom of this. But it will have to wait. Gramps is expecting us, and I don’t want to keep him waiting. I start toward the ICU doors again, “Come on, we should see Gramps. We can figure this out after.”

Steven catches my elbow gently between his fingers, and I turn back to see an unusually worried expression on my cousin’s face. Steven isn’t usually much for feelings—positive or negative. He’s the chill, steady sort, a voice of reason amongst the chaos of our loud, emotional family.

So, his warning hits differently as he says, “Just be careful, okay? With Weaver? There are things you don’t know, Gert, about what went down between him and your mom when we were little. The Olds tried to keep it a secret from all the kids, but you know me. I’m always listening, and Cathy’s always talking,and I spent almost every day after school at her house until my dad finally trusted me to stay home on my own. I heard things.”

I want to ask him what he heard, but I also want to turn and walk away. I want to head down the elevator, walk out of the hospital, and keep walking until I’m at whatever hotel room Weaver found for tonight. Then, I want to rest my head on his chest, feel his arms wrap around me, and forget everything else but us.

There’s no ugly past, no family feuds, no beatings or arrests or criminal charges, there’s just the man I love and how perfect I feel in his arms.

Perfectly happy.

Perfectly cared for.

And maybe, perfectly lied to…

I owe it to myself and everyone I love to find out.

But first, I owe it to the man who raised me to tell him how much I treasure him.

I nod, my jaw tight. “Let’s grab a coffee after we see Gramps, and you can tell me whatever you’ve heard.”

Steven looks uncertain for a moment, but nods. “Okay. But you’re not going to like it.”

“That’s okay,” I say, a humorless smile twisting my lips. “I don’t like anything that’s happened today. Might as well add one more topping to the shit sundae.”

Steven grunts out a soft laugh. “Yeah. That sounds about right.” He rests a hand between my shoulder blades as we walk to the ICU. “Wouldn’t be a Sullivan family weekend if there wasn’t drama.”

He’s right, but this is alotof drama, even for our family.

Still, I do my best to put it out of my head as we enter Gramp’s room. He looks so small in his bed, despite his ample belly. So small, and so frail. All I want to do is hug him and tellhim how glad I am he’s alive, but the tubes hooked up to his chest and my sling make that difficult.

I end up resting my forehead on his for a moment and whispering, “Don’t leave me, old man. I still need you.”

He smiles as I pull away. “Of course, you do.” His gaze is tired, but clear as it shifts between Steven and me. “Glad they sent you two. I don’t have the patience for the rest of those clowns today. Don’t let Cathy in here. If I have to hear her say ‘I told you so’ about all the butter I put on my lobster roll, I might have another heart attack.”

We laugh and promise to keep Cathy away, then move on to discussing the surgery and next steps. Gramps is eager to be home, but they’ll be keeping him for five or six days, until they see how he’s healing up. Then, he’ll need to take it easy for a couple months as he builds his strength.

“We’ll need to get help for you on the boat until I’m back on my feet,” Gramps says, scowling as he eyes my sling, seeming to notice it for the first time. “What happened to you?”

“Long story,” I say, forcing a smile. “But I’ll be out for a while, too. But don’t worry, I already have some thoughts on who to hire to fill in for the rest of the season.”

“Not the Cooper kid,” Gramps says, scowling harder. “He’s strong, but he’s an idiot, and I don’t want an idiot wrecking my boat.”

“Not the Cooper kid,” I agree, but hold up a hand when he starts running through a list of other people he doesn’t trust with his baby. “We’ll worry about it later, okay? We have time. Our profits are up over last year. We can afford to take a few days off while I figure this out. AndIwill figure it out,” I emphasize. “All you need to worry about it resting up and getting better. I’ve got this.”

And I do.

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