Page 68 of Take Me Home

“No,” Ash said immediately. “It’s funny, though, you telling me what to do about a situation you don’t know anything about when you’re the last person to take advice.”

“Well, that’s simple. You’re the kid here. It’s my job to give you advice. It’s not supposed to go the other way.”

Ash scoffed. “Okay.”

“I’m not sure when you got it in your head that you know better than everyone else, but I’m a grown man. I don’t need you looking for everything wrong with me and the house like it’s all proof I’m halfway into the grave.”

“Jesus. I don’t think you’re halfway into the grave, Dad.”

“But you can’t accept that my health ismycall. Not even when you think you know what’s best.”

Ash threw his hands up. “Most parents would be glad when their kid helps out, but fine. Whatever you want.”

“Sure, son,” his mother interjected gently. “Take out the trash, load the dishwasher. But this…this pushing about your dad’s health, lecturing June, spending hours lugging tools around the house instead of just spending time with us?” She raised a severe eyebrow, making sure he was paying closeattention when she added, “Giving the twins five hundred dollars without checking with us first?”

Ash’s skin pricked with guilt. He crossed his arms, fixed his gaze on the mottled linoleum floor. “Fine. I hear you.”

But fuck, it burned. All of it. He wasn’t sorry for stepping up. He didn’t feel bad for pushing when no one else was going to do what needed to be done.

“You know what?” he said, pushing up from his chair. “How about you guys decide exactly when and how you want my help and let me know? Because this”—he spread his arms to indicate the exam room—“this might all be fine today, but what about when you relapse? Or worse? You know that’s awhen, not anif, right? When is it still my job to get you to bed because you’ll hurt Mom if you fall on her, and when does my help make me an asshole? I’d really like to know.”

“Ash,” his mother snapped, eyes darting between his father and the closed exam room door. She didn’t want the staff to overhear, didn’t want anything, ever, to appear to be wrong.

“If this is really what you want,” Ash pushed on, something tangled and filthy unclogging in his chest, “then don’t make me help hide your episodes from the girls, and don’t ignore your limits to the point that Mom has to call me, crying about how you won’t take care of yourself.”

His father’s eyes cut to his mother, a remark dying on his parted lips. He looked genuinely stunned. Betrayed.

And that righteousness burning like magma in place of his blood cooled immediately. He never meant to hold those phone calls against his mother. More than that, he never wanted to expose her calls to his father. And as true as the sentiments were, long as he’d stuffed them down, he regretted immediately that the lid had come off now, like this, in anger.

He lost a bit of steam. “It’s not— Shit. I’m not saying don’t call me.”

“That’s enough,” his father said, so quiet Ash might have imagined it.

Then someone in scrubs swung the door open and ushered them back to radiology. Ash and his mother followed silently to another empty waiting room.

“Was that Hazel on your phone?” she asked once they were alone.

It took him a moment to backtrack. She meant Hazel’s texts. Ash swallowed. He wanted more than anything to stop fighting, but leaving it unresolved didn’t sit right. “Mom, I’m—”

“Is something wrong with Hazel?”

“I was supposed to meet her earlier.”

“You should go.” She didn’t sound angry or dismissive, only tired. He shook his head, and she raised a palm to cut him off. “At least let her know where you are.”

He couldn’t tell Hazel where he was because he hadn’t said a word about the MS, and now it felt like he’d been lying to her, when all he’d meant to do was keep things as uncomplicated and light as possible, to not scare her off. Just like he’d given her that ridiculous speech last night, insisting they could have a purely physical relationship without any feelings threatening their equilibrium. She’d been completely fine with that proposal, which only proved it was a smart move if he wanted to keep kissing her. And he did.

“I’ll text her,” he relented. “But I still want to hear what the doctor has to say.”

“Ash.”

“You’re asking me to back off. I need to hear the truth before I can do that.”

She shook her head, gearing up to argue, but finally said, “Fine.” Then, “About the money you gave the twins…”

He swallowed.

“I need you to understand we are not suddenly incompetent or destitute.”

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