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I shake my head. “No, but I have a car.”
“Good enough. Katrina, get out. Rudy is driving us to the hospital.”
I straighten up and take a step back as Lottie exits her daughter’s car. “Give me a couple minutes—I’ll get the car and be right back. It’s parked just down the road.”
“Screw that,” Lottie says. “We’ll come with you, then we can drive straight to the hospital.”
And that’s how I end up carrying a box of sandwiches, muffins, and treats under one arm with Lottie and Trina in tow. Trina is carrying a small overnight bag that must have Lily’s stuff in it.
I should have done more for Iliana. Even now, seeing the help she’s getting from her family makes me feel like I’ve failed her. I walked away when I should have stayed.
We hurry to my vehicle, and when it starts without any issues, Trina breathes a sigh of relief from the back seat.
Once we’re on our way, Lottie leans over to pat my thigh. “Whatever happened between you and Lily? I was sure you two would end up together.”
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. “It didn’t work out.”
“She pushed you away because of the cancer?” Trina asks.
When I glance at her in the rearview mirror, her head is leaning against the window. I nod. “Yeah. How did you know?”
Trina lets out a bitter snort. “That’s our Lily. I used to think she was jet-setting around the world all the time because she was afraid of being a burden on anyone. Needing help with the cancer—and everything else—is probably her worst nightmare.”
Everything else? What does that mean?
Lottie grunts in agreement. “You can say that again. When your father died, she couldn’t wait to run away to Peru. She called it wanderlust, but I knew what it was—she just didn’t want us to see her pain. She’s always been that way. Private. Your father was the same way. Damn near had to tie him to the bed to get him to rest and accept my help when he could barely make it to the bathroom on his own.”
“Maybe we’ll get away without tying her down,” Trina answers. “At least she let us drive her to the hospital this morning.”
I keep my eyes on the road as a lump forms in my throat, and I just keep repeating the truth to myself: Lily pushed me away. She broke up with me. We split up, and it was for the best.
So why do I feel sick?
CHAPTER 32
Rudy
“Are you sure you don’t want to come up? I’m sure Lily would be glad to see you when she wakes up again.” Lottie leans on the window opening to speak to me from outside the car. Katrina is already through the sliding glass doors and at the reception desk inside.
I shake my head. “I’ll give her a few days. I’m probably the last person she wants to see when she’s laid up in a hospital bed.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Lottie gives me a wink, then totters after her daughter.
I’m in a drop-off zone, so I don’t give myself any time to dawdle. I get back on the road and head to the office. When I pull into my parking space, my stomach grumbles. I never did get any dinner. The thought of sitting by myself and eating while I stew about the fact that Lily is in surgery and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it doesn’t exactly appeal to me, though, so I find myself heading to the Grove.
The bar is located in a strip mall just outside the Heart’s Cove town limits. It’s nestled between a barber shop and a now-vacant store that has been a Chinese restaurant, a nail salon, a pharmacy, and a weird vacuum repair shop—all in the last couple of years. I guess the few motorcycles that are permanent fixtures outside the Grove scare away the scant customers.
The Grove isn’t exactly a biker bar, but it’s a convenient stop on a nice drive, and Hamish and his sons have ridden motorcycles for as long as I can remember. As such, it’s become more of a biker-friendly bar. I park across from the four bikes parked outside and comb my fingers through my hair, a weight in the pit of my gut.
When I walk inside, I’m greeted by a dim interior that smells of stale beer and musk. Motorcycle memorabilia hangs on the walls, along with old photos and a few fizzing neon beer signs. Along the right side of the long, narrow room are some old vinyl booths upholstered in green, with the bar taking up almost the entire left wall. A few tables are dotted in between, but right now—as they are most weekdays—the tables and chairs are mostly stacked along the back wall.
Lee works the bar for his father a few times a week. I have no idea why. He either enjoys the company of grouchy old bikers or he has a soft spot for his father that he works hard to hide. It’s not for money—Lee makes enough of that on his own. I don’t even know if Hamish pays his son for the hours he works here. When I enter the old dive bar, Lee glances up and gives me a chin jerk.
There’s a guy I don’t recognize sitting at the bar, and I take a seat two stools from him. It’s not exactly unusual to see new people here, but this guy looks different. He’s wearing a shirt and suit pants, and both items look custom tailored. Shiny black shoes are hooked over the rung of his barstool, an odd contrast of old and new.
Glancing from him to the grubby old regulars whose faces are mostly scruff and wrinkles, I arch a brow at Lee.
“What’re you having?” he asks, eyes twinkling. Clearly, he’s curious about the new arrival.
