Page 75 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

I was expecting a nurse with a wheelchair, instead, a few minutes later Gio walked into the room. “Hey, a little birdie told me you are checking out of here.”

“That’s right.” Buddy, still perched on the bed, dipped his chin in a nod.

“And you’re headed over to VBRC?” Gio prompted optimistically.

All of his doctors and specialists had advised Buddy to go to Valentine Bay Rehabilitation Center. They stressed to him, dozens of times, that the inpatient PT he’d receive would be crucial to his recovery. He was hearing none of it.

“I’m going home,” Buddy stated firmly.

Gio continued pushing the narrative. “Look, I get it, you hate hospitals. Frankly, same. But this isn’t about you being weak or even being sick. It’s about not letting your pride get in the way of your shot at a full recovery. The only way to guarantee that is to do the inpatient rehab. Three weeks. Tops.”

Buddy rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere for three weeks, and I don’t need a babysitter. I can do my own PT, and I’ll do twice as much if I’m at home.”

Gio gave me a look saying, Sadie, tag in here, but I just shook my head and started putting his discharge folder in my oversized bag. We’d already danced this dance dozens of times, and Buddy’s resolve had only hardened.

Gio tried again. “You don’t have to like it. But you could have permanent nerve damage if you don’t let them help you. That’s not a scare tactic, that’s math.”

Buddy shrugged. “Then I’ll be a limpy old bastard running my farm and drinking beer in my own kitchen. Thanks for the concern. Sadie, let’s go.”

As if on cue the day nurse, Helena, came in with a wheelchair and announced cheerily, ”Your chariot awaits.”

“Nothin’ wrong with my legs,” Buddy protested. “I can walk just fine.”

Gio blocked the door and took the wheelchair from Helena, who appeared relieved not to have to deal with getting Buddy safely to his vehicle. “We know you can walk but this is the standard escort policy for all patients due to liability reasons,” Gio explained.

“I’ll sign whatever I need to sign sayin’ I won’t sue ya. I’m not gettin’ in that thing.”

Watching Buddy’s defiance made me wonder how in the hell I was going to force him to go to PT, which was mandatory for his recovery.

Gio was the only one in the room who looked like he was trying to have a little fun. He spun the wheelchair in a small circle, then backed it up to the bed like he was parking a Porsche in a tight garage. Buddy glared at him, but I could see the corner of his mouth twitching—he didn’t want to give Gio the satisfaction of making him laugh.

“Come on,” Gio said, patting the seat. “I’ll wheel you out in style. We can wave at the nurses on the way, see if you get any numbers.”

Buddy shot Gio a look. “Don’t need numbers. Got all the women I need.”

That was interesting. Gio obviously didn’t know that his Nonna was signing succulents with hugs and kisses to Buddy, or that she’d been visiting him daily from seven a.m. to eight a.m. before visiting hours. I’d only found out about it because Ida slipped and told me. I wasn’t sure how Nonna had been able to keep the secret from her grandson, considering he worked at the hospital, but I found it interesting.

Gio smiled widely. “I heard the night nurse left you a get well note and a piece of butterscotch in the drawer. Is she one of your women?”

Buddy actually blushed as he waved his hand dismissively. I had to hand it to Gio, the distraction tactic worked because Buddy let Gio help him slide from the bed into the wheelchair, one hand bracing the armrest.

“You’re a menace,” Buddy muttered.

Gio grinned, pushing Buddy toward the door. “And you’re as stubborn as a mule. That’s why we’re friends.”

We headed down the hall, and the nurse at the desk’s eyes lit up, most likely from relief that her most cantankerous, difficult patient was no longer her problem. “Bye, Mr. Shepard. You take care of yourself.”

Buddy lifted his hand. “Tell Dr. Jankowski I’m not coming back.”

The nurse gave him a thumbs-up. “Will do.”

Gio steered us into the elevator, spun Buddy around, and pressed the button for the lobby. I trailed behind, carrying Buddy’s ancient gym bag and the batch of discharge papers. Buddy’s arms were folded across his chest like a child refusing to eat his vegetables.

In the elevator, Gio leaned against the wall. “So what’s your first meal out of prison, huh? Burgers? Pizza? Hot wings? I know you’re not gonna say kale salad.”

Buddy grunted. “Grace’s chicken fried steak, extra gravy.”

Grace and her husband ran Main Street Eats diner and Buddy ate there every Sunday for as long as I could remember. He always ordered the same thing, chicken fried steak, extra gravy. He never wavered from that meal.