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Andrew gave me a sidelong look before he open his door and climbed out. “Sure,” he said. “Okay.”
Even though I had never been a ball gown type of woman, even I could tell that the dress was a work of art.
The whole bodice was an intricate dance of lace, painting a picture of flowers and belles at the ball. The sleeves stopped at my elbow, hugging my upper arms and melting into my skin. Tiny jewels rained down on the skirt of the dress, as if sprinkled there by magical elves or fairy godmothers. And, admittedly, the dress propped up my breasts in a way that no demi- or push-up bra ever did. They sat on a shelf all on their own, drawing Andrew’s curiously hungry gaze.
“Ah, yes,” the tailor said. “Beautiful, beautiful. It’s a good thing that you’re not the groom, young man. Yes, this would be bad luck, indeed.”
I blushed. “He’s just a friend.”
“Clearly.” The old woman looked at me over her glasses, then looked at Andrew. “But you two have a history, I can feel it.”
Andrew and I looked away. If only she knew.
Andrew cleared his throat and turned back to me. “She’s right though, Ace,” he murmured. His eyes traveled up the folds of the gown, around the bodice, and met the eyes living in my traitorous, burning face. “You look stunning.”
“Thanks.” My eyes skirted away from his to look at myself in the mirror. “It’s a nice dress.”
“It was made for you.”
I glanced back at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
We watched each other in the loaded silence. Somehow, the tailor had slipped away, but her musings sat in the forefront of my mind. I was struggling on the island that Andrew’s eyes created. I couldn’t tell if I was drowning, or if he was saving me.
He stepped toward me like a person sleepwalking. My heart held itself suspended, ready to jump out of my body at any moment.
My phone rang.
I snapped to attention as I looked at the caller ID. Strangely, it was Mother. She never calls me in the middle of the day. I wonder what wedding-related hell she’s concocted this time.
I picked up the phone, never breaking eye contact with Andrew. “Mother?”
There was silence for a minute before she said in a flat tone, “You need to come quickly. It’s about your father.”
* * *
My father was the grumpiest old man you would ever meet. I think, once or twice, he literally grumbled about the neighborhood kids messing up his lawn. Though my mother was no ray of sunshine herself, her epic level of coldness paled in comparison to my father’s utter lack of paternal warmth. And he was not shy about it.
“Children need to learn how to be useful, responsible,” he always said. “Children who can’t be taught, grow up to be adults who can’t learn. Always remember that, Alicia.” I would nod mutely, afraid to stoke his ire by pointing out that neither he nor my mother were particularly good at learning anything at their age. And they weren’t even old.
But that didn’t matter now.
“I don’t remember the last time Father was sick,” I said to Andrew as we made our way through the ICU. I very narrowly avoided being run over by a candy striper. “He never even gets a cold. But a heart attack?”
Andrew grimaced. “Heart disease is one of the leading causes of death for men,” he pointed out. I reduced him with a withering glare. “Not to say that he’s going to die.”
“He’d better not.” I stopped at room 2608 and looked at some random point on the wall. “He’s all my mother’s got.”
Before Andrew could answer, I stepped over the threshold. There were machines beeping softly, taking vitals, I assumed. The sun beamed brightly just minutes before, but somehow seemed dimmer here. As my eyes adjusted, I tried to find my father through the brightness. What I saw made me gasp.
While Dante and I were built like my mother—all lanky muscle—my father had always been the physical powerhouse of the family. Years of football and soccer fought against his old man tendencies, culminating in my father’s linebacker stature. He dug his roots deep, and even the strongest storm couldn’t break him. He worked out five times a week, fifty-two weeks a year, rain or shine. And it showed.
It was heartbreaking to see him now.
It had only been a few hours since he had the heart attack, but somehow, already, he seemed to have lost muscle mass. He was dwarfed by the bed. Wires wound themselves around his arms and branched out to different machines. Half of his face was covered in an oxygen mask, helping to push air into his lungs. He sunk into the bed with every gasping breath, and somehow, he seemed to have lost inches of his height.
I didn’t realize the death grip that I had on Andrew’s hand until he gently squeezed back. I immediately dropped his hand. “Sorry.”
