Page 11 of The Two of Us

My laugh is dry. “How fitting.”

“Come, leave your suitcases for a second and I’ll take you to your dad.” She’s already turning the corner. I almost forgot why I’m here. My dad’s somewhere in this house, dying, and I’m about to lay eyes on him for the first time since he was diagnosed.

Laura stops in front of a spare bedroom and I hold my breath as she gives a gentle knock before opening the door. She motions me forward and I enter the room that used to store holiday decorations and the treadmill machine my dad used for all of two weeks. I immediately picture him running and the image is at odds with the man I see now. My dad is a motionless figure on a small bed, positioned to face the open window so sunlight shines over his face. The golden glow fails to mask his pallid complexion, and he looks skinnier than when I last saw him—his eyes like sunken weights on his face. My nerves scream to look away, but I’m captivated by his protruding cheekbones in a morbid sort of way. He’s asleep, but if Laura wasn’t standing next to me, I would have thought he’d passed away already. A gentle hand touches my shoulder.

“I didn’t realize he would fall asleep this soon after his lunch. Would you like to sit with him? I need to run to the store and grab a couple of things for the house,” she whispers.

She’s already pulling out a yellow piece of notepad paper with illegible markings all over it. My eyes flit to the lone chair stationed near the head of his bed and alarm bells go off in my mind. The thought of sitting alone with him, wondering every few seconds if he’s still breathing, makes me want to get back on the plane and encourage the pilot to race back to New York.

“You know what, let me go to the store for you,” I say, reaching for the list.

“Oh sweetie, you don’t have—”

“Really, I don’t mind at all. It would be nice to stretch my legs after that flight and there are things I want to pick up anyway. I saw my dad’s car keys on the kitchen counter, so I’ll just run out quick.”

I tuck the list into my pocket and practically run from the room, tripping over my feet, before Laura can refuse my offer. I snatch the keys from the bowl and pull out onto the road in record time. And it’s in my haste that I miss the black Jeep Wrangler simultaneously pulling out of 164 Winsome Lane.

***

I’m parked at Hensen’s Super, taking my sweet time getting out of the car to make this trip last as long as possible. I silently scold myself. If I can’t face my dad while he’s sleeping, how am I going to stand by his side while he gets worse?

I step out of the car and grab an abandoned shopping cart near the hood before heading into the store. It’s surprising a small grocer like Hensen’s is still in business, considering the state of the other small businesses in town. I peruse the aisles one by one, inspecting every item on the shelves even though there are only five things on Laura’s list. I cling to the idea that I may come across something she’ll find useful. Some might call it denial. I call it wishful thinking.

A mother passes me with a toddler seated at the front of her cart and I offer a friendly smile. The little girl thrashes her legs about, filling the aisle with uninhibited giggles. The world hasn’t hurt her yet, and I want to beg her mother to shield her from what’s to come. The woman bends down to grab a bag of flour from the bottom shelf and the little girl takes the opportunity to snatch a bag of cookies, throwing them into the cart behind her. She catches my eye, hiding a mischievous giggle behind the palm of her hand and I dip my chin into my shoulder to muffle my laugh. When her mother turns back around, she notices the addition to their cart.

She grins at me. “Kids,” she says, tickling her daughter’s sides. “Do you have any?”

A laugh bubbles out of me. “Kids? Gosh, no. I don’t make enough money to pay for the therapy they’d need.”

She frowns.

I cringe.

“Happy shopping,” I say before fleeing to the next aisle over.

I bob my head to the ’90s song playing overhead, thankful for the distraction as I read and reread the ingredient list on a jar of pesto. Who knew pesto has pine nuts in it? I extend my arm toward the shelf above, suddenly curious about the real contents of aioli.

“Mouse?”

The aioli slips from my hands, rolling away on its side as the hairs on my arms shoot straight up. The voice is unfamiliar, but there’s only one person in the entire world who calls me that. My throat constricts as I stand there, unmoving. As if by remaining still, I can make myself invisible.

“Mara.” He’s closer now, and my body hums, waking up to the sound of his voice.

I’m both relieved and disappointed he’s switched to my real name. Resigning to the fact that my attempt at invisibility hasn’t worked in the slightest, I white-knuckle the jar of pesto still in my clutches and turn toward the boy I left seven years ago.

Except he’s not a boy anymore.

He’s anything but.

Ambrose King’s watchful stare burns into me as I shamelessly check him out from head to toe. The last time I saw him, he was attractive, but he was still young. This Ambrose is no longer attractive.

He’s devastating.

And while I’m all for self-punishment, this was a cut I wasn’t expecting. His towering figure casts a shadow over all five-foot-four of me and my eyes devour the sight of him, flitting over every inch of his body, branding him back into my memory. His sun-soaked arm bulges as he clenches the handle of his cart.

My Ambrose.

My golden boy.

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