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I move her walker a short distance away so it’s not in anyone’s way, then take the same chair I’d often sat in while growing up with the Simons.
Life here always felt brighter than my own house for some reason.
Even before Shelly and Marty moved in and it was just the old couple. Shame Doug passed on while I was deployed. I still feel bad that I wasn’t here for Shel and Thelma during that time.
She was seventeen, finishing her senior year in high school.
I’ll never forget the day I found her sitting on that swing, missing her parents. I couldn’t count the number of times that shit haunted me thousands of miles away, as soon as I heard about Doug.
That twelve-year-old girl had absolute loss branded on her face.
How hurt did she look as a soul-crushed seventeen-year-old?
How much did I add to her pain as she waited for me to write? The same dumb boy who was there before to cheer her up with a few cheesy jokes.
The man who protected her, who fought for her, till the war sucked so much fight out of me I couldn’t remember how to fight for shit anymore.
“Dish it up, Weston, and don’t be shy! Will you look at that cream?” Thelma says, smacking her lips. “Shelly made enough to feed an army.”
I pick up the pancake platter and the tongs. “Have you ever known me to be shy?”
“Not yet, boy, and here’s hoping the day never comes.” Thelma laughs.
With our plates piled high with pancakes stacked with caramel and whipped cream toppings that seem decadent as hell, we sit down and bow our heads while Thelma says grace. Shelly stirs when she mentions Doug.
Again, I get a flash of her, younger and teary-eyed and alone because of me.
Fuck.
Thankfully, the conversation flows to happier places around the table with Thelma leading it.
We talk about the time we all pitched in to help Jonah Reed track down his horse, Edison. Even with an actual movie star coming here—Ridge Barnet—that decrepit escape artist of a horse will always be the biggest celebrity in Dallas.
Old man Reed was good friends with Doug Simon and my own Grandpa Larry, and still amazingly grounded despite the billions he earned in North Dakota oil.
I laugh at how animated Thelma gets while rambling about the Three Musketeers and their antics.
Somehow, I keep one eye in the back of my head, waiting for snake-man Hudson to show up at the table and kill the buzz.
I think Shelly wonders if he will, too.
I can tell by how she keeps glancing at the door between red-faced laughing fits, the way she pauses before going for seconds at every little creak in the old house.
Definitely curious.
She didn’t seem so standoffish with Carson Chucklefuck last night. Seemed like they were getting along well.
The attitude adjustment makes me wonder what exactly went down between them after I threw my shitfit at the bar. Especially when she freezes at the squeak of footsteps on the stairs.
I heard them, too, and though my gaze drifts through the open door, no one ever emerges at the bottom of the stairs.
“Y’know, I wonder whatever happened to that old scrapbook your grandpa Larry had? He was a real stickler for detail. I remember seeing all kinds of photos and clippings stuffed in there,” Thelma says. “I don’t think Shelly’s ever seen it. You’d love the history, dearie.”
“I still have it,” I say, turning my attention back to the table. “Aunt Faye gave it to me last summer while we were sorting through stuff for her garage sales.” Turning to Shelly, I say, “You can borrow it anytime. Feel free to make copies.”
“Ohhh, thanks! I’d love to have a look.”
The back door opens and closes then, catching our attention. I brace for an evil eye from the dickhead from Boston.
