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Pop rolls his eyes at us both. “Your mom was about that age when I married her.”
The arrow through my heart stills my breath. Mom. He says it so casually. My raw pain and his nonchalant comment. I swallow past the sand in my mouth.
“And that was eons ago.” Exton offers, poking fun at Pop’s age. “And now you’re a grandfather.”
“Of almost two.” Pop plays along. His eyes dance with joy and mischief. “Can’t wait to meet the little man. Do you know how big Colt will look next to an infant? Night and day. You and Braxton were further apart than that. So were Brighton and Lay, but it’s doable.”
The look that comes over Pop’s face is humor. “How soon are you going to have another?”
Exton lifts his hands in a don’t-shoot gesture. “I’m not asking Willa about that while she can’t see her toes.
“She can see her toes.”
“Okay, in record July heat in Texas when she’s pregnant.”
“Smart man,” Pop and I say in unison. I smile inwardly at that. Pop and I aren’t in unison on much, but on this, we agree.
The server drops our food on the table, and Exton and Pop dig in. I eat, too, but mostly to avoid looks or commentary. The soup tastes muddy and salty. I’m sure it’s fine and just that my taste buds are off, but I choke down what I can, making sure I eat the protein before pushing the bowl away from me.
Exton looks between me and the bowl but says nothing. He works on his poboy and fries as he and Pop discuss the next leg of the drive. Exton will take over from here. They may switch out again once we get through Houston.
Their concern is the roads just inside the Texas line. They’re not great, and the bumps could jolt the vehicle.
“What do you think?” Exton looks to me, finally including me in the plans. It sucks to be talked about and around as if I’m not in the room.
I shrug.
“Lay, I need honesty from you. The ride hasn’t been bad so far, but Louisiana and Texas roads will be the worst part of this. I can go up and over through Dallas. It’ll add some time—significant time—but I’m not interested in pain in the name of expediency.”
“It hasn’t been bad. I have some Tylenol 4 if it is.”
Pop’s head whips to mine. He holds his fork aloft, etouffee dripping from the tines. “Why would you have that? Why would you need that?”
I lift my hands, palms facing him. “They prescribed it. And I have it just in case. Pop, I’ve been prescribed stronger with other surgeries.” Little does he know.
“Do you think you’ll need it?”
With what’s currently in my bloodstream? “Doubtful. It makes no sense to add four hours to a trip to avoid a bump here and there. I can handle it.”
We finish eating, and I hit the head one last time. Not to pee, but I want to break a tablet into quarters in case. It’ll be easier to maintain if I need and smaller to dissolve.
Shit. I sound like a junkie.
Ten hours. I need ten hours and I’ll be alone in my own home at the lake.
Alone.
And back to oblivion.
TWENTY-FOUR
BANG AND BOUNCE
LIVY
The problem, aside from the crippling pain, is knowing there’s nothing I can do about it. Aside from drastic measures that are untested and still in the trial stages, it’s muddling through.
And for this week—hell, longer actually—it’s enough to suck the breath from my lungs. Burning fire and ripping with every breath.
