Page 5 of (Un)Rivaled

“Why?”

She gave me one of her usual smirks, the one that showed she knew much more than the rest of the world. “Because you were with Devyn. You’d never let anything happen to that girl.”

Her words cut deep, knowing I’d caused Devyn more pain than anyone else in her life. It was like a wound that never healed right, constantly aching when it should have faded away years ago. Some days, it was a dull throb, but nights like tonight, when she was so close yet so distant, it felt like someone was carving me up from the inside. I stared up at my mother, and my guard dropped, letting the weight of the evening finally settle around me.

She stared through me, just like she didwhen I was younger. So many days growing up, I’d sit in this same spot, my mother giving me the same look. Just a couple of words from Marta Anders, and I’d fold like a cheap chair.

She leaned into the counter, interlocking her fingers together. “I know that face. Even better–I know who’s usually the cause of it.”

“It’s a long story,” I chuckled, but there was no warmth in the gesture. All I wanted was to rewind the night and take back the words that spilled out of my mouth. I didn’t even know where that protective urge had come from. It was ridiculous. Devyn had never been my wife in anything other than name. But from the moment that asshole pulled up in his suped-up car, all my protective instincts came blaring to life. My mother was right about one thing—no one would ever hurt Devyn, not in front of me. I might have been the one to fracture us beyond repair, but that didn’t change how I felt. I’d do anything to keep her safe.

My mother reached out and took my hands. “Look, Gray. I know you and Devyn had a special bond growing up, but maybe it's time to let her go.”

I just shook my head, unable to say the words out loud. Honestly, I thought the same thing. Shit, I’d tried—more times than I could count. But the moment things started to get serious with anyone else, I’d shut down, unable to get Devyn out of my mind. “I don’t know if anyone else is in the cards for me.”

My mother started to interject when a loud crash echoed from the upstairs bedroom. Both of us sprang into action, dashing upstairs to find my father sprawled out on the floor, trying to get his bearings.

“Oh, Curt,” my mother cooed, trying to help him to his feet. But instead of letting her guide him, my father swatted her hands away.

“I can do it,” he hissed, shoving off to his feet. “I don’t need your help.”

“Honey, I’m just trying to?—”

“Don’t you dare call me honey,” my father snapped, getting into my mother’s face. “Only my wife can call me that. If she hears you saying that to me, trust me, she’ll make you wish you never laid eyes on me.”

“Okay,” my mother sighed, holding out her hands. “I won’t say it again. But please, Mr. Anders, let me help you into bed.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and my heart ticked harder, hoping for a glimmer of recognition. Most days, my father was fine, his usual self, his memory intact. But these episodes were getting more and more frequent, especially if he woke up in the middle of the night. The doctors warned us that there might be a day when he was lost more often than lucid, so it was important to hold on to the good days as long as we could.

But I didn’t want to measure my days with my dad in variables; I didn’t want to wonder if today would be the day he forgot me forever. But Alzheimer’s Disease didn’t care about my wants or needs. It didn’t care that I still needed my dad, still needed the man I knew him to be.

As my mother led him to the bed, my father looked at me, a slow smile creeping over his face. “You know, you look just like my son. He’s down in the city, playing ball.” His smile lit up his face. “You should see that kid pitch. He’s incredible.”

“Probably thanks to you,” I answered, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Nah, that was all him,” my father chuckled as he laid his head against the pillow. “If you go to a game, make sureyou tell them that Curt Anders sent you. My boy will take care of you.”

“Will do,” I said, taking my mom’s hand as we left him to get a few more hours of rest. As I led her down to the spare bedroom she now called home, I pulled my mother into a hug. Her breath shuddered against my chest. These moments were challenging for me, but they were even harder for her. My parents started dating right after high school, and they’d never spent more than a week away from each other in the forty years they’d been together.

She pulled back, wiping her tears away on the back of her hand. “God, Gray. I’m so sorry.”

I took her hand in mine. “You don’t have to carry this alone, Mom. I’m here for you.” I stared harder at her. “But I think you should consider what the doctor said?—”

“I’m not putting him in a home.” She shook her head. “I promised to take care of him in sickness and health, and I mean that today as much as I did back then. I’m not going to send him away just because this is the hard part.”

“It’s only going to get worse?—”

“Don’t, Gray.” The finality in her tone cut off my words. “Just…not tonight. Let me pretend for a little bit longer that everything will be alright. When we reach that step…” She swallowed slowly. “We’ll discuss all of this later.”

She stepped into her new bedroom, effectively ending any further discussions about my father’s dwindling mental state. It was okay; I was fine with putting off this discussion a little longer too. I didn’t want to live in this house without my father, needing to hear his laugh and the constant tinkering of his tools.

But the knowledge it would eventually end was always lingering there in the corner, just waiting for the moment when we were content to strike. That was the thing aboutliving with a diagnosis like Alzheimer’s: more days than not, it felt like a guillotine was waiting over you. And one day, much sooner than you ever hoped, the rope would finally snap, and everything familiar would get washed away. You’d be left with nothing more than memories of the person sitting in front of you.

And while I was beyond thankful I still had my father with us, I couldn’t help that sting of bitter disappointment, knowing he was a shadow of himself. That one day soon, he’d look at me like a stranger while he would continue to be my hero.

I pushed these thoughts out of my mind as I walked down the stairs, waking Elsa from her place on the couch. She looked at me with tired, dark eyes but followed me into the garage, climbing the stairs to the attached loft. Originally designed as a mother-in-law suite, I’d moved up here as soon as I could in high school, excited for a slight hint of freedom. I never dreamed I’d be living here again at thirty.

While I owned a place outside of town, it felt wrong to stay there when my mother needed help, especially at night. My dad often woke up distressed, and she needed help keeping him calm. I felt more comfortable being close.

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