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“I’m not sure,” he admits. “Since when did you become a tactical genius?”
“Since always.” I look at my nails, feeling smug, then grin at him. “I read a lot of thrillers.”
He laughs then takes a long drink of coffee. I smile back at him, feeling strangely at ease for the first time since we started doing this. Maybe it was the sex last night, banging the sense from my skull, but I want him to come over here and kiss me.
“I have something for you,” he says and for a second, I’m worried he can read my thoughts.
“If it’s another corpse burrito, no thanks, you can deal with that on your own.”
Another laugh, this one softer. “No, it’s something you’ll like. Come here, I’ll show you.” He pulls a piece of paper from his back pocket, folded into a square.
I don’t move. “Whatever’s written there, I don’t want to know. Unless it’s a receipt for the hand grenade I requested.”
“They don’t write receipts for hand grenades. Come over here, Ren. I’m trying to do something nice.”
“Since when did you do nice things? You realize you can only be nice if you don’t expect anything in return?”
He looks annoyed. “Renata. Come here.”
“Oh, go ahead, talk all bossy to me. Doesn’t mean I’ll listen.”
“Girl, that stubborn streak of yours is going to get you killed. Come sit next to me and take the damn paper before I change my mind.”
“No need to be so dramatic.” I go over, lowering myself down with plenty of space between us. “What’s so important anyway?”
He shoves the paper at me. “Read it.”
It unfolds into what looks like an invoice. “It’s actually a receipt?”
“No weapons involved.Read it.”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re so damn bossy sometimes…” I trail off once I understand what I’m seeing here. I stare at it, taking in the numbers, the dates, all the detailed information, before I slowly look up at him. “Is this for real?”
His expression softens. “Thought it might makes things easier on you.”
“This is for threeyears.”
“I went overboard.”
“Lanzo—” I shove the paper back at him, blinking away tears. “I can’t take this. Grandpop can’t take this. He’d flip if he found out someone else paid.”
“Take the damn gift,” he says, shoving the paper away. “You can rip the receipt up if you want, but it’s been paid for already.”
I take several deep breaths before jumping to my feet. I stalk away, heart racing, and stare down at the paper again.
It’s an invoice from the home nursing company. Three years, paid up front, for full-time care.
That means Grandpop’s going to have all the helps he needs while I’m away and then some.
I keep blinking but the tears come anyway. I curse over and over, leaning against the wall, fist pressed tight. My knuckles hurt, the drywall digging into my skin. I keep staring at the invoice.
“I’m not sure how you’re reacting right now,” Lanzo says, sounding worried. “Are you happy? Pissed off?”
“Relieved,” I say, shuddering as a sob escapes my lips. “My god, so relieved.”
The relief is palpable. It’s like I’ve been sleeping on my arm for a decade and only just let the blood flow back into my fingers. Ever since Grandpop got sick, I’ve been drifting through my days, worrying about his health and doing everything I can to make his time easier. I’ve been his live-in nurse, more or less, having this full-time help is going to change my life in so many ways.
The relief is painful. It hurts, feeling this way. I hate myself for it. I shouldn’t be so relieved. I’ve been taking care of the man that took care of me my whole life, but now I’m so happy to get some help it’s actually painful. Guilt fights back against the relief, guilt over feeling this way, guilt over wanting to have my own life beyond Grandpop, even though I owe him everything and love him more than I’ve ever loved someone.
