Page 114 of Severed Rivalry
“Of course, bug.” She pats the bed next to her where she sat to remove her shoes.
Renée rounds the bed and throws her arms around her grandmother, falling into sobs in her chest.
Rosie looks at me before focusing her full attention on the child in her arms. “Oh, Renée, it’s okay.”
“I was scared.”
“I love you, Née. Very few things scare me, but not watching you grow up is one.”
“Don’t leave me.”
“Never. Well, not for a long, long time, okay?”
“Okay.” My girl’s voice through quiet sobs is enough to break me.
Moving from my place at the door so they could have their moment, I kneel at Rosie’s feet and unlace her shoes. “Socks on or off?”
“Do you have a fresh pair?”
Shit. No. We have only what we came in.
“I’ll get you some. So on for now?”
“You know I hate dirty feet.”
That I do. “Want to go to the bathroom before you lie down?”
“I’d rather close my eyes for a few first. I may regret that later, but I’m tired.”
“Can I stay with you?” Née asks quietly.
“I’d love that.” Rosie pats her hand. “Are your feet clean?”
Renée jumps up and heads to the jack-and-jill bath between their rooms. Water runs, the sound drowning out Rosie’s whispers. “What happened? Why are we here?”
“I’ll tell you when you wake up. Did they send anything home with you?”
“Tramadol.” She winces. “No previous reaction to it and it’s effective.”
“When was your last dose?”
“Right before I left. I’ll need it in”—she looks at her watch—“an hour and forty-five minutes.”
The water flips off. “I forgot my phone,” Renée hollers from the bathroom.
“We’ll get it filled and have new socks when you wake up.” I say, kissing Rosie’s cheek.
“I got it.” My daughter extends her digital tether and smiles as I move for the hall, flipping off the overhead light.
“Get some rest, RoRo. Glad you’re home.”
“Mom?”
“Yeah.” I turn back to the room, to my mom and my daughter.
“I like Cian.”
“Me too,” Rosie adds. “He’s handsome too.”
