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“Aww.” Libby sighs, then shifts her attention from the baby to the balloons. “Are those for me?”
“Yes.” Serena laughs and gestures toward the coffee table, covered in various floral arrangements. “Those too.”
“Flowers! Oh my gosh!” Libby squeals and hurries to check out the arrangements. “Aw, these are from Troy.” Libby holds up a red vase with a bunch of rainbow-colored roses.
“Who’s Troy?” Serena whispers to me.
“Math tutor,” I answer, adding air quotes.
Serena turns her head and snickers.
“Melanie and her mom,” Libby says, reading another card. “Oh wow, these are from Shelby Morgan!” She holds up an arrangement of pink and yellow roses.
“That was so nice of her,” I say to Serena.
Serena nods. “She felt terrible when she heard.”
“This one’s from Dex, Emily.” Libby points to the largest arrangement—a bright and colorful mix of tulips and daisies.
“That was sweet of him,” Serena says, casting a sympathetic glance at me.
She knows. Dammit. She knows we broke up. Trinity wasn’t kidding. The Lost Kings MC grapevine works fast.
Libby stands, wobbling slightly on her feet. I hurry to her side, but she brushes off my assistance.
“I’m okay, Em.” She yawns. “Just tired.”
“All right. Let me help you upstairs.”
She tilts her head. “Are you going to change my diaper too? I broke my arm. I didn’t turn into a toddler.”
“You’re kind of acting like one now,” I mutter.
Serena chuckles and turns away, heading back into the kitchen.
I don’t blame her. At least baby Lincoln isn’t capable of back talk yet.
“All right. Go on.” I shoo Libby toward the stairs. “I’ll be up in a few minutes to check on you.”
“Whatever.” Libby turns and takes a few steps, then hesitates. “Can you maybe bring my balloons and one of the arrangements up, too?”
I could tease her—lay on a thick coating of now you want my help—but I don’t. “Sure, pudding.”
I give her a head start, then collect the balloon ribbons in one hand and tuck a vase of flowers in the crook of my arm. Navigating our somewhat narrow staircase with the wild bunch of bobbing balloons takes some effort, but I finally manage to make my way to Libby’s room. I release the balloons and they drift toward the ceiling.
Libby’s tangled in the gray sweatshirt someone in the hospital gave her. “Ugh, help me get this off.”
I set the vase on top of her dresser, then hurry to her side. I tug the sleeve that’s caught on her cast, trying not to wince at the bruises on what little I can see of her hand and fingers. “Do you need some of the pain meds?”
She stops, her body going completely still for a few seconds as if she’s mentally cataloging her injuries on a pain scale. “Not right now.”
“All right. You should probably eat first, anyway. But don’t let it get too bad, okay?”
“Okay.” She flicks her wrist, wiggling her fingers toward the door. “You can go. I’m fine. I just want to crawl into my own bed and sleep.”
“All right.” In the hallway, I lean against the wall, listening for any signs she’s in distress. But all that comes through the solid wood door are the sounds of her shuffling around her room. Then finally the familiar squeak of the mattress when she climbs into bed.
Relieved she’s home and resting, I return to the kitchen to help Serena.
“How’s our patient?” Serena asks.
“Cranky but resting finally.”
“That’s good.” She nods to the stove. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Together we fill our bowls with a heaping helping of spaghetti and spoon thick red sauce and meatballs over it. At the table, she keeps Lincoln close in a travel highchair.
“You seem to be a master at eating with one hand now,” I point out.
“Right?”
Nervous she’s going to ask me about Dex and, wanting to avoid talking about our breakup for as long as possible, I quickly choose something I know she’ll have lots to say about. “So how did Lincoln do in the car?”
“He was so good,” she gushes, then her smile falters. “Except for the last ten minutes.”
“When you got off the Thruway?”
She blinks a few times. “Oh. Yes. That’s when he started fussing, then crying.”
“Makes sense.” I stab my fork into a meatball and cut a piece off. “More stop and go. Not as smooth of a ride.”
“Please, I drive like I’m about to take my road test now. I’m so paranoid about all the other cars.” She swirls a few strands of spaghetti on the tines of her fork and leans over to take a dainty bite.
Guilt settles over me. She shouldn’t have had to take such a long drive with the baby before she was comfortable.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she scolds. “I refuse to turn into one of those moms who never leaves the house.”
“Was Gray okay with you two leaving for a few days?” I ask.
