Page 34 of As the Years Pass
“He only did that once. Okay, twice.”
“I’m not walking anyone home unless I’m trying to get in their bed. Not in this city.”
“Emmet isn’t like that,” I say firmly, grabbing my drink.
“No, he isn’t, is he?” Nathanial is giving me that look like he knows a juicy secret.
“Have you known him long?” I ask slowly.
“Who, me?” he says, placing his hand on his chest. “I hardly know him at all, outside of all the Bar Daddy jokes. He’s mysterious. Keeps to himself most of the time. He’s got the brooding hot guy thing going for him.”
“That’s Emmet,” I mutter, finishing my drink. I slide it to the edge of the bar, Pete grabs it and makes a gesture for another, so I nod. “He’s a good man,” I add, thinking back to when we were younger. Even then, he had a good head on his shoulders. Better than anyone else I knew.
He came from amazing parents who raised him well and taught him right. He was a good guy, an amazing friend, and fuck, was he an incredible lover.
I refuse to let myself think about it for too many reasons, but right now, I can’t help but wonder why I was so stupid to let him go in the first place.
Chapter Thirteen
Emmet
I never sleep well in other places. When I wake up the house is silent, and I figure my parents are still asleep. A sense of dread washes over me as I think of the alternative—the worst alternative. I push the thought from my mind, crawl out of bed, and head to the kitchen.
The fridge is bare, with only the essentials, but I grab the eggs and butter and find a loaf of bread that’s past its date but isn’t moldy yet.
Dad said Mom isn’t eating anything by mouth. She isn’t able to swallow well, and so they put in a G-tube and that’s how she receives her food. But it’s Christmas morning, and if it’s going to be her last one, I think she’d appreciate a meal. Or maybe thiswill all be torture since she won’t be able to eat it. I don’t know, and I hate that I don’t know what to do to make this right.
I sigh, planting my hands on the counter and dropping my head forward. I hate seeing her suffer, and I know she’s suffering even if she’s pretending she isn’t. There are a ton of medications for her to take, but she won’t take any of them.
Some may say she’s given up, but I don’t think that’s it. I just think she wants to enjoy her last dayshere, in her right frame of mind. She doesn’t want to be drugged up and sleeping the entire time. I guess I can understand that, and I respect the hell out of it.
With a heavy breath, I decide I need coffee. Coffee always makes things better, especially in the morning. I make half a pot, figuring Dad will want some too. As it brews, I get started on the eggs, scrambling them and making toast. It’s easy and simple, and one of my favorite meals. Mom made it for us each morning before school.
A door opens and bare feet shuffle on the tiled floor.
“Hey. Good morning, Em,” Dad says, his voice husky.
“Morning, Dad.”
“What are you doing over there?”
“Making Christmas breakfast.”
He chuckles. “And coffee, it seems.” He grabs two mugs from the cabinet and pours coffee into them.
“Does Mom drink coffee still?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” he says with a little laugh. “She likes it in the tube. Says she can still taste it.”
I sigh, gritting my teeth. I turn off the burner on the stove and face my father who is adding sugar to the pink cup.
“How do you do it?” I ask, hating how raspy my voice is.
“Do what?” he says, as if he really has no idea.
“How are you so strong right now? How do you see her like this every day and not fall apart?”
He pauses, then turns to me, putting his hand on mine. “Because I love her, and when you love someone, you will do anything to see them happy.” He gives me the saddest smile I have ever fucking seen, then goes back to making her coffee like he didn’t just tear me the fuck apart.
