Page 92 of Waiting Game

Kerrigan’s mouth is tight. “My life is caving in. What the hell does it matter if it’s in New York or Tucson?”

“Fair point,” I agree, brows low as I step over to him.

He’s not sitting at one of the tables; if anything, he’s off to the side, between two counters where two huge boxes of bananas are stacked in preparation for the mass consumption that’ll go down over the next couple of hours.

Bananas are our god.

Not wanting to crowd him but not wanting to leave him either, I take a seat at the table, my back still to him, and ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Can you cure cancer?”

I freeze. “You’re sick?”

“Donnghal didn’t tell you?”

“That you’re sick? No.”

“Not me. I wish I were. Fuck. My w-wife.” His guttural sob has me wincing. “She’s dying.”

My mouth works as I try to formulate a response, but what the hell can I say to that? “It’s really terminal?”

“You think I’d lie about something like that?” he snarls, and I hear the boxes shift as they scrape against the floor.

That’s the only warning I get before I’m dragged off my seat by the neck of my tee. He shakes me as he turns me around to face him, his fists balling in the fabric and pulling it tight. “Do you? You think I’d make something that fucking horrific up?”

I don’t bother trying to shield myself. The grief in his expression, the yawning depths of his pain filling his eyes—if it makes him feel better to beat the shit out of me, then he can have at it.

“No. I don’t.”

In the doorway, I see someone hovering.

Liam.

I catch his eye with my own and faintly shake my head to the side. At my order, he doesn’t move away, nor does he enter the room.

“She’s fucking dying.” His hands tighten around my neckline until it cuts into my throat. “And there’s dick all I can do.”

His pain has me placing my hands on Kerrigan’s shoulders and gripping them tightly. “You sure this is where you need to be if you’re going to lose her soon?”

Fat tears pour down his cheeks. “I get on her nerves. Hovering.

“What’s the fucking point in having all this money if I can’t fix her?”

He starts off hoarse, but the words are practically a scream by the time he’s done.

“I know, man. I know. It fucking sucks.” I squeeze his shoulders, offering what comfort I can. “But don’t hover around her. Be there with her?—”

He shoves away from me, letting go of his hold on my jersey with a bewilderment that tells me he didn’t realize he’d gotten in my face.

“What do you know about any of this?”

“My grandma died of cancer. And my granddad had to watch her fade.”

His eyes clench. “She was old. My Lacey’syoung. We have a baby girl. She’s not supposed to fucking leave me. I told her I could only have kids if she was with me. She fucking promised?—”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Your grandma got to live. She had a family. She saw you. My kid won’t even see her mom at her first birthday.” His shoulders heave. “What am I going to do? How am I supposed to do any of this without her?”

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