Page 67 of Last Love

Ryder

- “The best thing.” -

“Nothing new is working, Ryder,” Noah fusses from the other end of the phone.

I simply adjust the phone against my ear while continuing to stare uninterested at Pres’s closed garage door.

“Nothing.”

Yeah.

Heard him the first four times he used that word.

“And he’s stopped accepting the treatments that were previously helping in the slightest altogether.”

“His body his choice.”

“This isn’t a fucking joke, Ryder.”

“I wasn’t exactly kidding.”

“I do not believe you are this fucking heartless.”

When it comes to the miserable old fuck, I most certainly am.

“Look, his home nurse, Janet, is now a full-time live-in and told me this morning that the doctors are saying he’ll be lucky if he makes it another month, Ryder. Dad took the news with a smile she said, which I find fucking insane, and is evidently committed to making the most out of his final days.”

The back of my head hits the headrest. “Get to the point faster, Noah.”

“Convincing you to see him one last time is his final request from me.”

What a fucking asshole.

Even in his dying days he still uses my big brother like a goddamn pawn.

“What’s it going to take to get you to go over there?”

No response is given.

“Should I call Presley? Have her convince you?”

“Do not even think about dragging my woman into this shit storm,” I instantly bite, stare now stealing a glimpse of her front door where she should be exiting any second. “This isn’t her circus. These aren’t her It clowns.”

“Not legally, but we both know you’re gonna get married and have kids and all this shit will then be her shit, so stop trying to shield her from the inevitable.”

“I don’t drag Shelly into our bullshit disagreements; therefore, show me the same fucking respect and don’t do it to Pres.”

“Fine.”

His surrender is suspicious.

Really. Fucking. Suspicious.

“You listen to Law. Call him. Simply…see what he thinks. Get his trusted opinion.”

An unconscious glaring occurs.

“If he thinks this would be detrimental to your sobriety, fuck it. Don’t go. You can say your bitter goodbye at his casket, and I won’t bring it up anymore. I’ll tell Dad a version of the truth that’ll hurt less than he fucked his youngest up so bad he can’t be in the same room with him without relapsing.”

I can.

I don’t fucking want to.

“However, if Law thinks it would help provide you with overdue closure or be a great exercise in mental strength or I don’t know, just give you something to cross off your list of grievances, then go. Deal?”

“Deal implies there was something in the agreement for me, Noah.”

“I’ll drop the requirement for you to have dinner with us every week.”

“I like those.”

There’s an unexpected stretch of silent before he quietly investigates, “Seriously?”

“Yeah. Shelly’s baking aside-”

“Fuck, it’s awful.”

“You should really just tell her.”

“I’ll fake a nut allergy first.”

Small snickers are followed by me sighing, “Shelly’s Duncan Depression desserts aside, I love our weekly family get togethers. And so does Pres.”

“How about I drop the monthly health check-in clause you had to sign? No more piss tests. No more blood draws.”

“Not enough.”

“Fuck,” he grumbles, frustration flourishing again. “What about…what about…your cellphone bill? You can stop paying your portion of it for the rest of the year.”

“Still not enough.”

“You’re extorting me, you know that?”

“Do you know the definition of extortion?” I lightly chortle. “You wanna look it up and call me back?”

“I wanna call our father and tell him his fucking dying wish of his seeing his youngest has come true.”

Pres finally opens the door only to re-shut it again, still inside.

She forgot her phone.

Ten bucks says she also forgot where she put it down and instead of asking me for help, she’s going to aimlessly tear the place apart for at least another three minutes.

“How about your car?”

The question successfully captures my attention.

“How about no more tests, no more paying your cell, and no more monthly car payments? We’ll call it paid off, put the title in your name, and you can just pay for your portion of the insurance.”

Living paycheck to paycheck does eat at me.

Every time I see my bank account, I immediately transported back in time to when I was that penniless eighteen-year-old struggling to scrounge up enough cash for a goddamn Christmas present.

I loathe that fucking feeling

I fucking loathe that I can’t usually afford our dates or dinners.

I fucking loathe even more I can’t buy her nice gifts like jewelry or do little thoughtful things like send her roses.

The most I can typically do after rent, bills, groceries, and gas is get her a cheap ass zebra stuffed animal, which have now become displays in her townhome.

Looks like a fucking zoo with the random places she puts them.

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