Page 36 of Never Forget

“Maybe,” he says, shrugging nonchalantly looking down at his phone one more time before shoving it back in his pocket.

“Are you okay?”

“So your grandpa is sick?”

He’s obviously trying to change the subject, but Scott is rarely private about anything so I feel like I should let it go for now. He’ll tell me later if it’s important.

“Yeah. He’s had COPD for years and managed it okay, but I guess he had an episode a few days ago and was admitted.”

“And you only found out today?” Scott asks incredulously.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel, and I shake my head, unable to come up with a good explanation why my grandfather has been in the hospital for as long as I’ve been in Raleigh and no one thought to tell me. They knew I was in town. I called them before I left New York to tell them I was going to be here, and I left a message when I arrived.

“I told you, they’re stubborn. Neither of them wants to admit that they’re getting too old to keep up with everything they’re into. They retired six years ago and they’re still writing articles, volunteering, doing the occasional lecture, and participating in academic societies. On top of that, they’re researching and writing a book.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Lester’s are overachievers by blood. Except me, of course.”

“Of course. Except, you know, how many Grammys, AMAs, VMAs, and whatever other awards have you won? How many platinum and double-platinum records do you have? Not to mention the multiple world tours, all fully sold out within hours, by the way. And none of that touches the amount of fundraising, volunteering, and awareness work you’ve all dedicated your lives to,” Scott points out. “You’re still an overachiever, if you ask me.”

I huff out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, make sure you don’t mention any of that when they’re around.”

“Like I said, you won’t even know I’m there,” he says, miming zipping his lips.

I won’t lie, it does feel good to have someone care enough to be in my corner and point out my achievements every now and then. Like they matter.

None of Lest Is Moore’s accomplishments have ever really felt like mine. I’ve always felt separated from our success. Maybe because that success never changed anything for me back home.

I thought maybe my grandparents would be excited about the places I’ve gotten to see or the opportunities I tried to share with them. It never happened. I stopped hoping they'd be proud of me after our first award season, when they didn't want to attend and didn't even watch from home. They never even congratulated me until I pointed out that we’d won every category we’d been nominated in, and even that felt flat.

Even our charity work couldn't get through to them. As my grandfather once put it, ‘It doesn't count if you're using it for clout and to puff up your own egos.’

It's not like that. It never was. But trying to prove it would feel like begging for recognition and prove his point, so I gave up on that a long time ago.

These days I mostly keep my accomplishments to myself. It's easier than listening to my own excitement sound like bragging.

When we arrive at the hospital, Scott runs over to my side and shoves a pair of sunglasses on my face before brandishing a ball cap. He has to remind me to cover my face and tattoos. I’m wearing a long-sleeved button-down shirt already because I don’t feel like listening to my grandmother assure the doctors or orderlies that I’m a good boy despite looking like a ‘hooligan’. Instead, I look like a douche with giant sunglasses and my collar popped, with my ball cap pulled down low.

Scott laughs when I tell him as much.

“I really don’t think there’s much chance of any danger here. It’s a busy hospital. These people are too busy to pay me any mind.”

“Remember the mob at the hotel after someone tipped off the paps?”

“That was Will’s dumb ass and you know it.”

“Anyone could have tipped them off and the same thing would have happened.”

“I’m not Jesse. Or Will. Or Ari. Other than taking stupid pictures that make it look like you’re mooning over me, the press has never given me that much trouble. On my own, I rarely even get photographed.”

Scott makes a face, some of the color draining from his usually happy expression. “Better safe than sorry, right? After the, you know…” He ducks his head like there’s anyone around us to hear and whispers, “Bomb.”

Rolling my eyes, I pull the cap down lower and dramatically flick my collar before I start walking to the entrance. Scott walks a few steps behind me, just close enough that I can hear him mutter, “Don’t think I didn’t see that.”

A happy little zing buzzes through me as we walk up to the desk to get visitor passes and directions for where to go.

That happy feeling only lasts as long as it takes to get to my grandfather’s room. He’s in a hospital bed, propped up to a sitting position. There’s oxygen tubing under his nose and a ton of leads and tubes running from him to various machines. It’s a little too reminiscent of when Jesse was in the hospital. The feeling of looking at someone you love, someone who has always been larger than life, look so small and fragile… It aches in an intangible way, makes me feel just as vulnerable as they look.