“Let me see what you did to yourself,” Connie says, coming to stand behind his chair, prodding at the collar of his shirt.
He shoos her hands away.
“I’m fine.”
“I’ll bet. Because you’re so good about taking care of yourself.”
“Aspen helped.”
She raises a brow at that. My focus shifts to Monica, who’s gone quiet, watching a bird out the window.
“I’m a nurse.”
“She was my flight nurse on the medevac,” Emmett explains, with something that sounds like pride in his voice.
“Well, it sounds like you were in good hands.” She looks at me. “He was the worst patient ever, wasn’t he?”
I chuckle. “Not by a long shot. Antsy, but you just have to be persistent with this one—peel back those layers.”
“I’m not an onion.”
“No, onions are sweet compared to you,” I say.
He’s never looked more unbothered by teasing than he does now, his blue eyes sparkling with—dare I say—joy and admiration.
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
EMMETT
By the time Aspen gets Gran laughing, I know we’re on borrowed time. We’d had a solid two hours with her. It’s been too long since I’ve seen my grandmother with this level of clarity for this long.
I know time is ticking, but I can’t look away.
That’s why this disease is so cruel. It tricks you into thinking you’re safe. Like the present is something you can hold on to. And when the slip finally comes, nobody escapes it untouched.
It’s subtle if you’ve never seen it before, but everyone in the room knows it’s coming when my grandmother’s focus starts drifting during lulls in the conversation. The half-second lag before she answers. The way her laughter turns a touch nervous, like she knows she’s supposed to laugh but she’s not a hundred percent sure why. She’s trying to keep up appearances.
I want to fold her up in a hug and tell her it’s okay to let go. Sometimes the fighting is the hardest part. The pieces of her are still here, but they don’t stay long enough.
Her hands, folded in her lap, stop moving with purpose and start fidgeting.
Aspen notices right alongside me.
To her credit, she doesn’t change a thing, staying warm and present as she speaks to my grandmother the same way she has been the entire afternoon. The worried glance she shoots me is the only sign she sees it happening too.
Sitting on the edge of her chair, my grandmother’s free hand clasped in her hand, she listens to every word like it’s all that matters, smiling patiently, even when the memories start to loop back on themselves.
I pull my chair closer to Aspen’s, covering her bare knee with my palm and squeezing.
She still remembers the big things. My name. Her favorite horse. The way the kitchen was covered in flour every day the summer Rory decided she wanted to be a baker.
She even remembers yelling at me for sneaking beer into the barn.
“He was a terrible liar,” she tells Aspen.
“He still is,” Aspen responds.
