Page 65 of The Way We Are

“You’re over twenty minutes late. I have children to get ready for school,” she scolds while galloping down the stairs. “One more tardy slip will have them doing trash pick-up during lunch.” She growls a long, simpering groan. “God, Willis, you know this!”

I glance over my shoulder, thinking she’s speaking to someone behind me, but I’m the only one standing in the corridor.

“I’ve already done breakfast, but he needs a shower. Stay on your toes today. He’s wearing his cheeky pants this morning.”

After snagging a black satchel from the floor in the foyer, she raises her eyes to me standing frozen at the top of the stairs. “Oh. You’re not Willis.” She twists her lips. “I guess his gamble at Sin City paid off?”

Not waiting for me to answer, she rushes for the door. “It was nice meeting you. I’ll see you tomorrow. Please don’t be late. I need to be out of here no later than 7 AM.”

“I’m not... umm...I ...”Come on brain, now is not the time to fuck up.

“You’ll be fine. Don’t let his size fool you. He's the size of a bear, but he’s really just a big pussycat.”

My jaw falls open when she flees the Fontane mansion with the speed of a track star. I stop staring at the door, praying she will magically reappear when a shouted, “Goddammit,” roars through my ears.

Although it’s been a few years since I’ve heard that voice, I know who the deep rumble belongs to. “Mr. Fontane?” I slowly open the bedroom door the raised voice came from.

“Oh, shit, sorry,” I apologize when I walk in on him yanking his pajama pants down his legs. Just like me, he isn’t wearing any underwear.

“Stupid liquid. I spilled it on my pants,” Thorn grumbles under his breath as I divert my eyes to anything but his naked backside.

I keep my eyes fixated on the wall, waiting for him to replace his pants. When several long seconds pass in silence, I chance a glance back. Thorn is standing in the exact same spot with his pants huddled around his slippers, glaring at his feet like he can’t figure out he needs to remove his slippers before he can step out of his pants.

The reason for his confused look comes to light when I scan the room. Although his room is furnished in the same palette it’s always had, the textbooks stacked on his bedside table are new additions. They all have the same theme. They are about living with Alzheimer’s.

Fuck.

“Did you... ah ... do you need help?” My words are as shaky as my heart. This isn’t a disease that happens overnight. This is a painstaking disease that develops over years.

Thorn shifts on his feet to face me. The youthfulness of his face is shocking. I swear he hasn’t aged a day in over a decade. His sandy blonde hair sits whispery around his ears, and his green eyes sparkle in the early morning sun. I always thought Savannah got her looks from her mother and personality from her father, but I’m realizing now her father’s genes were stronger than first perceived. They look so much alike, it's uncanny.

“Hey. You’re...ah...ahh...” Anguish crosses Thorn’s face as he struggles to remember.

“Ryan,” I fill in, moving closer to him.

“Ryan. Right.” His voice isn’t as confident as he is hoping.

I drop down to my knees to assist him in removing his hard-soled shoes. “You’ve just gotta take your feet out of your slippers first, then your pants will slide right off,” I advise.

“Well, look at that,” Thorn replies with a grin. “It’s like magic.” After stepping out of his pants, he snags an identical pair resting on the wooden chair he's standing next to.

“Here, let me,” I offer when his blond brows join together, seemingly confused.

He watches me cautiously as I assist him in getting dressed. “Ryan.”

His tone sounds like he's testing my name out for familiarity, so I don’t reply.

“Why does your name ring a bell?” he eventually asks when he comes up stumped.

“I’m a friend of Savannah’s. We used to go to school together. It’s been a few years since I last saw you.”

“Oh,” he replies with a smile that matches his daughter’s in more ways than I can count. “That’s good.” His head bobs up and down four times before he questions, “Who’s Savannah?”

Oh, Jesus.

My heart smashes against my ribs when I admit, “She’s... ah... She’s your daughter.” I thought my confession would weaken his smile. It doesn’t. Not in the slightest.

“I have a daughter?” When I nod my head, Thorn repeats, “I have a daughter.”

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