Page 11 of Ruthless God

“It’s not enough,” she says as tears stream down her cheeks.

I say, “Triple your salary.”

“What?”

“He said he was going totripleyour salary for three months of work. Lili, you have to do this. It will give you the nest egg you’ve been working so hard for. You’ll be able to spend more time with Raquel.”

Harvey nods and adds, “Didn’t you say you quit your jobs?”

I move closer, taking Raquel from Lili’s arms.

“Girl, we’ll be fine here. You go and make that money.”

It takes about an hour more of comforting and pointing out all the reasons Lili needs the job before she finally kisses Raquel one last time and heads out.

When she’s gone, I turn to Harvey.

“Looks like we get to play house for the summer.”

“Will you even be around?”

His tone is hard, and I flinch.

“Yes, I’ll be around. In the mornings, afternoons, and some of the evening. Can you handle the rest?”

He sighs. “I suppose I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“We all have choices.”

“Ha!” He barks out a bitter laugh. “That’s debatable. Just ask Tad.”

Since we’re finally talking without fighting too much, I ask, “How’s Tad?”

“The same.”

“Meaning he’s still a self-absorbed asshole?”

“You know it. I don’t know why I thought it would be a good idea to hook up with him. I’m blaming it on the brain tumor.”

I flinch. “Too soon, my dude. Too soon.”

Harvey looks somewhere past my shoulder.

“That’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud.” His gaze finds mine. “I have a brain tumor, Cecely.”

I pull him close, hugging him. “And we’re going to do whatever it takes to make sure you beat it.”

Even though all the odds are stacked against him.

3

Cecely

We settle into a new routine. It’s not perfect, but it works.

Lili calls or texts when she can, her messages sometimes short, sometimes rambling, depending on how her day goes. Harvey and I fall into an unspoken rhythm, taking turns caring for Raquel. Diaper changes, feedings, late-night fussing. It all blurs together, but somehow we keep everything from falling apart. Somehow, we make it work.

I stroll into the living room, my mind half on autopilot, digging through my bag as I walk. My fingers brush against loose receipts, a stray tube of lip balm, a crumpled dollar bill. Where the hell is my key fob?

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