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Great. Now she was mad. Sad. The whole deal. He didn’t know what to say to her.
So he said nothing.
When Wren remained quiet for the next five minutes—completely unheard of for his overly talkative sister—he finally broke the ice.
“When we get there, I’ll do all the talking. You can be my moral support.”
She sent him a wary glance. “That sounds like a good plan.”
“Tell me your concerns. Give me the rundown.”
So Wren went over everything again. Telling Lane about their mom looking pale all the time. That she was thinner and had lost her appetite. That she complained about not feeling good and was tired.
Lane had done some research on the web, though not much because any time he looked up symptoms on the Internet, he always ended up convinced someone was dying. He’d been a little calmer while looking up things about middle-aged women though. At least, he’d tried to be. “Maybe she has an iron deficiency. Or maybe she’s going through . . . menopause.” He wouldn’t doubt it. Wren had a way of overdramatizing things, and their mother was closemouthed about everything. It was like Wren went in the complete opposite direction.
Wren made a face. “I hope it’s that simple. But why wouldn’t she tell me if that’s what it was?”
“Maybe she’s embarrassed.” Hell, he had no idea. That’s why he wanted Wren with him. If the problem really was woman stuff, he wouldn’t know what to say. And he couldn’t bring Delilah into it, though he was glad that she’d offered to accompany him. Lane appreciated the gesture and all, but she didn’t need to deal with their family drama. Not that Delilah was a stranger to it.
Lane frowned. He hoped she wasn’t mad that he turned down her offer only to ask Wren to accompany him instead. Surely she understood. She’d been so agreeable when he’d had to leave her. Christ, he didn’t like thinking about it. Made his blood hot remembering what they’d been doing just before they were rudely interrupted . . .
Damn it, he needed to focus. Thinking about Delilah was dangerous. Distracting.
“I just hope Mom’s honest with us.” Wren hesitated. “She’s pretty good at keeping secrets.”
Yeah. She was. And so was their father. Their rocky relationship was something Lane had never really understood. They were a terrible example for what a healthy marriage should look like. The arguing, the cheating, the lies. All of it had messed with Lane’s head when he was younger. It had messed with all their heads, even though Wren and Holden seemed fairly well adjusted. But they were younger and Lane and West had always protected them the most.
Lane had also protected West, not that he’d ever tell his brother that. West preferred to think he was the macho, tortured one of the family who’d borne the rotten legacy of their parents’ crap relationship—and as a result, was incapable of having a normal one. But Lane was the true owner of that particularly shitty prize. West had found Harper, who’d turned his life around. Lane was still alone.
And he’d remain alone. It was easier that way. He cared for Delilah but he wasn’t relationship material. His job kept him too busy. His siblings demanded too much from him, and he was spent. Exhausted. He didn’t have it in him to romance Dee and treat her like a queen. But she deserved no less.
The moment he pulled his truck into the driveway, their mom greeted them, the screen door banging loudly behind her as she came out onto the front porch, waving wildly.
“Well, isn’t this a surprise!” she called as Lane and Wren exited the truck. “Two of my children coming to see me. I thought this only happened on holidays.”
Lane grimaced. Right. Always fun times at Thanksgiving and Christmas when the family was forced to be together. He freaking hated pretty much every holiday.
Wren made her way up the front steps, embracing their mom. The two women clung to each other, his mom’s cheek pressed against Wren’s hair, her eyes closed for a brief moment. It gave Lane plenty of time to study her, looking for those telltale signs Wren had mentioned.
Angela Gallagher did look a little pale. And there were more gray strands than golden brown in her hair. Other than that, she just looked like . . . his mom.
His sister had to be overexaggerating. He hoped.
“Lane.” His mom let go of Wren to draw him into her arms, and he went willingly, holding her close. That’s when he felt it. She’d always been thin, but right now she felt as light as a feather and her bones seemed downright . . . fragile. Carefully he pulled her away from him, taking her in as he kept his hands cupped around her shoulders.
“You okay, Mom?” He bent his knees a little so he could look into her eyes and she flushed beet red, shooing at him with a fluttering hand as she stepped out of his grip.
“Stop fussing over me. Is that why you’re both here? Did Wren call in the big guns?” She sent Wren a knowing glance. “Didn’t we already go over this?”
“Mom—” Wren started, but she shushed her.
“I’m fine,” she reasserted, turning away from them so she could open the front door. “Now, come inside and I’ll fix you two a glass of iced tea. It’s hot as blazes out here.”
Lane looked over at Wren, who gave him a See what I mean? expression. Maybe Wren hadn’t been overdramatic. Something could be wrong with their mom. But what?
“We’ll take you up on that offer,” Lane said as he and Wren both followed their mom into the house. He was immediately hit with the familiar smell, a bunch of varying scents coming at him all at once. A candle burning on a nearby table; the lingering hint of bacon from breakfast earlier this morning, no doubt; the dog that sat near the couch panting gently. Clearly he needed a bath. Oliver was old—he’d been around at least ten years, probably longer—and his muzzle was white, marring his otherwise shiny black fur.
Lane wrinkled his nose. Yep, and Oliver was a farter. Dog had the worst gas he’d ever experienced. He remembered moving out and being thankful that he wouldn’t have to smell that particular scent any longer.
