Page 39 of Played
She glances at the open doorway to his room. “Can I go say goodbye?”
“Of course.”
I watch her walk into the room and remain outside while she sits with him, speaking quietly. After a few minutes, she gives him a kiss on the forehead and walks out, her cheeks soaked with tears.
She grips my hand tightly. “He’s not in any pain, you know. That’s important, I think.”
I nod my agreement. “It absolutely is.”
She plasters a sad smile on her face. “Hey, he beat out those doctors though, huh? Four weeks, they said.”
“He sure did. Stubborn old goat.” We both laugh, but it’s hollow and sad. Something to replace the dreadful silence of his impending death.
“Will you call me… if… you know. So I know?”
“Of course I will,” I promise.
“Would you like me to try your parents again? Maybe if I explain?—”
“No, it’s okay. Really,” I tell her. Not only would it be a waste of her time, but I don’t want them here anyway. Just because I would permit their presence doesn’t mean I welcomeit. They would only taint his final hours with their hostility and disapproval.
“You’re sure there’s no one I can call to come sit with you?”
Immediately, and for reasons I can’t fathom, my thoughts turn to Mason. I dismiss them as quickly as they arrived. “No. There’s no one else.” Those words hang solemnly in the air. Nobody but me and Grampa.
She glances at the clock. “I really have to leave.” She hurries to his bed, gives him one last kiss on the cheek, and whispers something to him that I don’t hear.
And then she’s gone, and it really is just me and him. The way I spent the best parts of my childhood. Even if they were far too infrequent, all of my favorite memories are of him. His cigar smoke and his rattling cackle. His frailty and his strength. He taught me all I know about being a man.
I sit beside him and rest my forehead on his knuckles and talk about all the things I should have talked about when there was time. I tell him about Mason, how we met, how I fucked it up, and how much I wish I could make up for it now. I tell Grampa how much I love him and how much I’m going to miss him and how the world will be a little duller without him in it. I tell him I’m sorry for all the time I spent away, and I’m saddened beyond belief that he won’t sit up and scold me for it.
When he passes, it’s quiet and peaceful. I expected something more. A final gasp of breath. A squeeze of my hand to let me know he was on his way. But he left this life the way he lived it, gently and without a fuss.
I call Amanda in a haze of confusion and console her when she sobs down the phone. I call my parents, and our conversation is brief and detached. Once he’s been taken away, I remove his sheets from the bed, dislodging the scent of cough drops and lavender that is so much him that it makes me stumble. But I don’t fall. I carefully fold the linens and placethem in the laundry room, ready to be washed tomorrow. Or perhaps I’ll never wash them, and they’ll be a constant reminder of his presence here.
I wander around the apartment in a daze—a place that only felt like home when he was in it. Thunder cracks and lighting splits the sky in two before rain begins to hammer against the windowpane. It’s as though even the heavens know he’s gone.
“Bye, Grampa,” I whisper.
Chapter
Twenty
MASON
How the fuck could I be so weak as to let him anywhere near me? I slam my beer bottle down on the kitchen counter. As soon as he put his hands on me, I lost all ability for rational thought.
I hate that I told him to get out, and even more, I hate the look on his face when I did. It was nothing less than he deserved, but it wasn’t fair. He’s not a mind reader. I wanted what happened, but it was easier to blame him for my loss of control, although I could have told him to stop at any point. I could have pushed him away. I should have punched him in the face.
But the truth is I didn’t want him to stop. It felt too good to have him touching me, to have him make my body respond the way only he’s ever been able to. He somehow knows exactly what I want when I want it. When to speed up and slow down, when to be soft or when to be rough. And I hated myself for the way I felt, so I took it out on him.
Now I feel like the world’s biggest asshole and everything is fucked because I came all over his fucking hand like that awkward teenager who was obsessed with him back in highschool. Is that why he did it? To prove he still had some control over me? To prove he still holds all the power?
I grab another beer from the fridge and lean against the kitchen counter. King was right. I am fucking disgusting. Just not for the reasons he believes I am.
My cell vibrates on the countertop beside me. Think of the devil. I shouldn’t answer it, but my fingers twitch against the granite—itching for me to pick up and find out why the hell he’s calling.
With a frustrated sigh, I pick it up and put him on speaker. The sound of the rain is deafening, and I glance outside at the storm. What the hell is he doing out in this? When he doesn’t speak, I do. “What do you want?”
