Page 137 of It's Always Us

I laugh, and it hurts my head. “These nurses are too nice to have to deal with their loud nonsense.”

“That’s for sure,” he chuckles.

My mom stands, placing her hands on Bree’s shoulders. “What do you think, Bree? Shall we grab a pizza, watch a movie, and paint our nails this evening?”

“Sure,” she says hesitantly, and I hate that this happened. Consistency has not been her friend lately, and that’s exactly what she needs.

I grab her hand. “I’ll be there to pick you up from school tomorrow, ok?”

She nods. “Can I call you in the morning?”

I smile. “Uh . . . you better.”

She leans over the bed to hug me, and I squeeze her tight. My mom will keep her busy this evening doing all kinds of girly things she’ll love that I never wanted any part of.

“All right, girlfriend.” My mom takes her hand. “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse us, we have beauty treatments and chick flicks waiting.”

“Don’t you be turning my house into some beauty salon,” Grandpa says, but there’s a twinkle in his eye.

Bree giggles, and my mom turns back in the doorway. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Once they’re gone, I turn to Grandpa. “You talked to Mark?”

“I just wanted to check on you,” Slade cuts in like he doesn’t want to intrude on this conversation. “Get some rest. Let me know if you need anything.”

I nod, holding my arms out so he knows he’s not leaving without a hug. “Thanks for coming and for checking out my truck.”

“Anytime, but don’t ever do that again.”

“I’m going to try really hard not to.”

Slade ducks out the door, leaving me with the old man, and I have some questions.

My eyes find him, but he’s fiddling with his phone, and the fart isn’t doing anything but avoiding me.

“I heard you called Mark.” His eyes remain set on his screen. Complete and total avoidance. “I didn’t know you had his number.”

“Huh.” He scratches his gray scruff that’s quickly turning into a beard.

“Would you like to tell me how you got that?”

“Not really.”

Well, that was quick. “You can either tell me or he will.”

He rests back in the odd chair that converts into a bed, crossing his arms over his chest. “He gave it to me.”

He’s like an old mule that won’t budge no matter how hard you kick. “Did he? When?” I know this man won’t lie to me.

“Pal, does it really matter?”

“Since you’re putting up such a fuss, it seems to me it really does.”

He leans forward, his arms on his knees. When he sits like this, he looks younger, and I see the man who showed me how to remove an oil filter for the first time.

His eyes stay trained on the floor. “He called me after his first win in the NFL. Started off shootin’ the shit.”

He rubs his jaw while an ache forms in my core that expands quickly. He called.

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