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I smiled nearly the whole way home as I turned up the radio and sang along to the music. Being around them had done my heart good. Plus, I felt ridiculously excited about helping them update the kitchen and couldn’t wait to discuss the ideas running around in my brain.
And not just because it involved Delaney.
Okay, maybe that was part of it. I couldn’t stop thinking about how vulnerable he looked…and how warm and solid he felt in my arms. I kept telling myself anyone would, except maybe the guy from the coffee shop. He would’ve just felt wrong. Which only proved that the person and the connection mattered. Delaney had come to mean something to me, so it only made sense.
“I might just hold you to that.”
Fuck, I hoped he would.
I pulled into my driveway, glad I’d left a light on in the living room so it wasn’t so dark and empty. Maybe I’d have some milk and cookies of my own while relishing the memory of that warm embrace. Might sound pathetic, but it was all I had right now.
13
Delaney
October
It was the first weekend of the month, and we were on our way to see my father at the assisted-living center in Mayfield Village. Grant was fidgeting beside me. Today he was wearing a T-shirt that read: You Had Me at Napoleon Bonaparte, along with his French Revolution bicorne hat.
I thought Marcus would get a kick out of that shirt, but I’d resisted texting him—mainly because I was still working through what had happened between us the other night. I’d been a blubbering mess, and I hoped he didn’t hold it against me, though I felt safe enough with him and was pretty sure he wouldn’t give it another thought.
At least not the crying part, but maybe the other. I smiled to myself like a hormonal teen. And maybe I was, in that regard. To have a guy hold me again. Offering physical comfort was new between us, and not something I would’ve ever expected, but it felt good.
I also resisted asking Grant what he and Marcus had been discussing when I’d walked in on their conversation after splashing cold water on my face. I’d admit I immediately felt envious that Marcus seemed to get along better with my own son than I did.
“Why are you so restless?” I asked Grant as he straightened his hat for the umpteenth time. My father was used to his costumes, and so was the nursing staff, though today’s outfit was tamer than most.
But my father could also be pretty biting with his remarks, which was one of the many reasons I’d always been so tense around him, though I’d also grown pretty numb to it, or at least that’s what I told myself. But by now, I’d made my peace. We’d never have a close relationship, and I was okay with that. He wasn’t an easy man to be around. I just hoped I hadn’t transferred my anxiety to my son. So much for breaking out of the mold.
“I don’t know,” Grant replied, staring out the window. “It worries me to see Papa like this.”
Grant had definitely become more sensitive about lots of things since Rebecca’s death. But mostly about medical stuff, and who could blame him. “You mean getting up in age?”
“Yeah, that.” He glanced briefly at me. “And whatever is going on with his heart that you mentioned before.”
“Congestive heart failure,” I said, supplying the term that had eluded him. “Which means his heart isn’t pumping blood as efficiently as it could be. That’s why I’m grateful we got him into assisted living when we did. He’ll have access to around-the-clock care if anything should happen.” Though he might have to level up to skilled nursing as his disease progressed. We’d cross that bridge when we got there.
“True,” he said absently as if we hadn’t really touched on what was bugging him.
“What are you not saying?” I asked, but he ignored me. “Grant?”
“Okay, fine.” He scowled. “I know Papa loves me, but sometimes he’s a jerk.”
“I know. He’s always been that way.” There was no reason to deny the truth. Grant and I were well past sugarcoating stuff, not when life had been so brutally honest with us.
“When you were a kid too, right?” he asked, and my gut tightened. I wished he’d been exposed to my mother’s kindness instead. But at least he had Rebecca’s parents for that.
“Yep,” I admitted. “I didn’t go to him for many things. I had my mother for that. She was awesome.”
An uncomfortable silence descended in the car. “Grant, I know—”
“No, Dad, don’t. You’re not like Papa.” I held in my gasp as my heart rose to my throat. “I know we butt heads all the time. But he’s like, cranky, and sort of cold. You’re just annoying.”
