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“How is she?” Callie asks, giving Dad a worried look.
“They’re having the X-rays done now,” he says, motioning for us to sit beside him. We move in closer since we can both tell he’s in emotional shambles over this, despite his calm demeanor. His concern is deeply etched in the fine lines around his hazel eyes. “It’s not looking good,” he says. “One of the medics mentioned something about surgery and torn muscles…”
“Oh, no,” I manage, the knot in my throat returning with a vengeance.
He looks at me. “Where’s Elliot?”
“With Laura, for now. I’ll go back to pick him up, and she’ll come over to stay with you later tonight. We’ve agreed to take turns,” I tell him.
“The treatment and the surgery aren’t the problem.” Dad sighs deeply, shaking his head as shame lights up red in his pale cheeks. “It’s the bill we’re going to get. Your mother and I haven’t been keeping up with our insurance payments since last year. My stroke hit us where it hurt…”
My breath stops. Callie and I exchange horrified glances.
“What are you saying, Dad?” Callie asks with a trembling voice.
“It’ll be in the tens of thousands. We can’t afford to pay… our insurance won’t cover it,” he says, tears filling his eyes.
“Dad… why didn’t you tell us anything? We could’ve done something about it. We could’ve helped,” I reply.
“How? You’ve got Elliot and your student loan. Not to mention your own bills. Laura is still paying off that business advance for the tattoo salon upgrades. And Callie here… she’s been helping us enough with other things already…”
I look at her and frown slightly. She exhales sharply. “The mortgage. I helped cover the past six months.”
“So, you knew about the default on their insurance,” I conclude.
“No, I didn’t. I would’ve told you; I swear. I just asked Dad if I could help them because I had some disposable income and I knew they were struggling.”
Dad looks broken. “I’m sorry for all of this, girls. We did our best to keep ourselves afloat every damn time, but my stroke… it… it… it…”
Sometimes, I can see the traces it left behind. He doesn’t slur his speech, but frustration can bring out a stutter he didn’t have before. He ends up cursing under his breath and rubbing his face with his bare hands while Callie puts an arm around his bony shoulders.
“It’s gonna be okay, Dad. We’re gonna figure it out,” she says, somewhat unconvincingly.
I nod slowly, finally understanding what the universe had been trying to tell me the whole time. “Excuse me for a minute,” I tell them and walk out into the hallway.
After passing several gurneys and vending machines, I move out of the way for a team of paramedics to rush in an injured child. It takes a moment for me to get over the terrified look on the kid’s face as I take Todd’s card out of my wallet and dial his number with trembling fingers.
“Hey, Mr. Connors. Todd. It’s Becky. Rebecca Alderson…”
“Becky, hey…” His voice is raspy and low. I think I woke him up.
It doesn’t matter. He’s about to get some good news, anyway.
CHAPTER8
TODD
Imeet with Becky at Rousseau’s, a favorite bistro café of mine. It’s on the corner of two narrow streets in the downtown district, on the lesser-known side of town, which makes it perfect for meetings that need to happen outside of HeartMatch and out of the public eye. The café itself used to be a butcher shop, and they kept the original black iron window frames along with the interior counters and glass displays, but everything else has been given a French twist.
The coffee and the crêpes are fantastic, and I make sure both Becky and I get the best of their menu before we move on with our conversation. I didn’t think I’d hear from her so soon, truth be told, but I was oddly exhilarated to hear her voice coming through that night. I could swear I’d already been dreaming about her.
“Thank you for meeting me here,” I say, smiling softly.
It’s early morning so foot traffic is relatively low in the area. It gets slightly livelier in the afternoon, but for now it’s just us and the cobbled alleys intersecting right under our glass-top table. Becky looks tired but still beautiful—in a non-conventional way. The olive-green skirt she’s wearing goes just past her knees, paired with a cream sweater, a wide leather belt and black leather boots, her brown hair flowing down her shoulders. She doesn’t like makeup much, not that I mind. She doesn’t need it, anyway, though I’m pretty sure she’s had to use some concealer this morning. There is something happening in her life that is taking an emotional—and probably financial—toll.
It has to be the reason she decided to accept my offer.
“Thank you for taking the time,” Becky says, absently stirring a packet of brown sugar into her latte. “I know you’re a busy man.”
