Page 97 of Give Me What You Will

“Sounds good to me.” John glanced at his wristwatch, then at Steph. “I think Sam just offered to buy us beers.”

“Is that right?” She popped her head up from her charge nurse station, purse already in hand. “Well, what are we waitin’ for? Gio Vega?”

John chuckled, blushing, and Sam, for the first time since Frankie left, laughed.

He spent the next several hours at the Hot Dog Palace bar with John and Steph, and after one too many drinks, told them about his situationship with Frankie. John was surprised but happy, and Steph glowed, telling him how much she had liked Frankie when she had met him a few months ago.

For some reason, their approval pleased him.

Once he got home, he showered and slipped into a pair of black boxer briefs and an old gray T-shirt, then grabbed another beer in the fridge, thoroughly buzzed and blissfully fucking happy. He was going to be the best man at John and Wyatt’s wedding. He’d never been in a wedding before and was honored that John had chosen him.

He suddenly wished his grandpa were here to see what his life had become.

To see how happy he was.

I miss you, Papi.

He glanced at the box of his grandpa’s things and sighed. He had finally opened it back up a few days ago, missing Papi and Frankie, and needing a distraction. The coffee table in his living room was strewn with pictures and letters, with one dog tag sitting on top. Jack Russo’s.

His last conversation with Papi came back to him as he slumped onto his couch, emotion welling inside him as he was transported back to that day.

“Stop fussin’,” Papi barked, slapping the water glass and plastic straw dangling from it away.

Sam sighed impatiently, “You need to stay hydrated.”

“The nurse does that. You don’t need to. You’re just supposed to sit here with me and keep me company while I die.”

He couldn’t help but snort with laughter and rubbed his forehead in exasperation. Papi was difficult—hell, the whole Samuels bloodline was difficult, smart-mouthed people that filtered nothing for no one. Even on their hospice bed, apparently.

“Death is a slow bitch and needs to hurry up already. I’ve got people waitin’ for me on the other side,” Papi complained, fidgeting with the edges of the quilt the priest had given to him earlier.

He shook his head, staring hollowly at the richly colored quilt patterns and at Papi’s wrinkled, aged hands, blood-bruised and paper-thin. He was so fragile and yet still feisty. “What about me?”

“What about you?”

“I—”

“Sammy…” Papi interrupted, drawling out his name the way only he could do. “We’ve had a good run. Nearly thirty years by my side. You’re the second love of my life. You know that. But I ain’t waitin’ to see my man another day.”

Emotion clogged his throat.

“You look like him.”

“Who?”

Sam knew full well he didn’t look like his mother, Millie, and he’d never actually met his biological father, so he had no idea who Papi was referring to.

“Your grandpa.”

His lips parted in shock as he stared at the man in the hospice bed, who was once so full of life and energy that he reminded Sam of a walking sparkler.

“Open that drawer, hand me the picture in there,” Papi instructed firmly.

Numbly, obediently, he did. Inside the bedside drawer was a photo of two men—one he recognized as a younger version of Papi, and the other… Sam shivered, staring at another version of himself, but from another time, another life.

Impossible.

“Your real grandfather’s name was Jack Russo. My best friend and…” Papi murmured. “Soulmate.”