Page 45 of Every Chance After

He brings me steaming hot potato and corn chowder with crackers on the side, which he sets on the coffee table. I scoot up, wincing as I do.

“The pain pills will kick in soon,” he says. “Don’t take them without food. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He grabs a notepad and pen from the coffee table and jots something down. Then, he holds it up to show me that he’s logged the date, time, and medication I just took. “It’s good to keep track to prevent under- or overdosing.”

He makes me think of Mom. “Um, that’s smart. Thanks.”

“Another thing I learned from Dad.” He nods toward the soup. “Eat.”

Though my stomach revolts, I gulp several spoonfuls.

“Grady, take some money from my purse. For the groceries.”

He grunts. “Not a chance. Stop offering.”

When the cats circle him in the kitchen, he asks about my feeding routine. He follows my instructions, even separating their bowls without me having to say anything. Hershey gets greedy.

When they finish, he hand-washes their bowls and sets them on the rack to dry. Then, he retrieves his medical bag from The Beast and gently examines Triscuit’s ears.

“Wax build-up,” he says after ten seconds. He scratches under her chin, and she purrs loudly. “No wonder she’s bothered. I’ll irrigate them.”

“Aw, thanks. You’re a lifesaver,” I say with a short giggle.

His blue eyes cut to mine. Not amused.

Triscuit’s ears get cleaned in less than five minutes. He frees her with a gentle, “Good girl.” Then, he snaps off his gloves and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. He sorts his things, rearranges some of the groceries, and, looking somewhat sheepish, sets a large heart-shaped box of chocolates on the coffee table. “Mom said you’d want something sweet, and chocolate’s good for the, um, antioxidants.”

“Ah, Carmela’s always been so good to me,” I say, thinking back on all the times I asked her for help with Mom’s medications as a teenager. “Thanks, Grady. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help today.”

He runs his hand over his cropped head, looking agitated, like a propeller plane, unsure where to land. He returns to the kitchen, folding the bags and tucking them behind my bread box.

“If you want to stay, the rule is you have to relax.”

“Do you want me to stay?” He catches my eyes in his. “Truth.”

“You aren’t obligated to me, Grady.”

“Leaving you alone worries me. What if you need help? Do you have someone to call?” he asks gently.

My mind goes blank. I shake my head, feeling weaker than seems possible. The pain in my midsection, a headache nipping at my temples, and my swirling pit of a stomach beg me for solitude. I predict a long night of sobbing and whining to my cats. These are private things I should handle alone, as I’ve done with every uncomfortable moment I’ve ever had. But Grady’s crystalline eyes fix on mine, intense and desperate. Regret shadows the lines on his face like scars he’ll never get over. I understand the feeling.

“I’ll be fine, but you’re welcome to stay if it helps.”

“I only want to helpyou,” he groans.

“You have. All I want to do is sleep,” I admit, sounding weepy.

He nods, takes a breath, and crosses the room. He grabs my phone from the side table and hands it to me. “Open it.”

I do as I’m told. He snaps a stern picture of himself with my phone and swipes his fingers across it in a flurry. As he types, a message pings, causing his brow to quirk and his eyes to roll slightly.

He returns the phone, showing me that he’s added himself as a contact under Tripp Grady Tripp, using the stern pic as his avatar. I chuckle lightly. Under a new text from Ashe, Grady texted himself one word.

Marina.

“It doesn’t matter the hour. It doesn’t matter the reason. I’m here if you need anything. Promise me, you won’t hesitate to reach out.”

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