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Celia: Okay, honey. I’ll see you in a few hours.
Nic’s next on my update list. Texting on my broken phone takes all my concentration, so I blink twice when a cup of coffee, a bottle of water, a muffin, and a candy bar are placed on Timothy’s empty tray table.
“Sorry, best I can do this time of the night,” the nurse says with a smile, disappearing before I can ask.
When I ignore the food, I get another text from Timothy’s mom.
Celia: Eat. Drink. You need to take care of yourself, too, sweetie.
She has spies in this hospital. The food and drink came from her via the nurse, I bet.
I’ve never met any of Timothy’s family, but he talks about them a lot. I’ve heard stories of wild holidays and childhood adventures. The general chaos of a family as eccentric as Timothy. I could probably tell the story of The Great Crème Brule kitchen fire like I was there, but for the life of me, I don’t know what his mother does for a living. Or his father. Until tonight, I didn’t know their names.
Half of Timothy’s stories are full of tangents and a good 60 percent have to be hyperbole. It can be a little hard to follow. Maybe I missed those details. Or Timothy left them out.
The muffin looks a bit dry so I eat the candy bar and sip the coffee to distract myself from the aching loneliness that settles over me.
I watch Timothy sleep for hours, rapt by the rise and fall of his chest. I’ve been crushed into hundreds of his bear hugs, but my cheek tingles with how badly I want to press it there to listen to the heartbeat I’ve watched and memorized on the monitor.
Marry me.
He didn’t mean it. He’s drugged out of his mind, he just had brain surgery. It shouldn’t surprise me how easily he can throw out something ridiculous like that.
If Timothy ever gets married, it will probably be on a whim. A whirlwind wedding in Vegas twenty minutes after he pops the question.
Quick footsteps and a nurse’s quiet voice outside the room catch my attention. A woman rushes into the room. I rise from my chair and she wraps me into a tight hug before I can register anything beyondTimothy’s mother.
The soft smell of her perfume sticks in my nose as I sniff back the sudden tears burning in my eyes. I haven’t had a mom hug since Nan died and I cling to her, the touch-starved orphan I am. Her hands are reassuring, stroking my hair, dredging up a longing for the family I don’t have.
“I hope you’re Mina,” she whispers, “or this is going to be awkward.”
My laugh sounds half-mad. She pulls away, holding tight to my arms as we stare at each other.
Holy. Shit.
I know her, though I’ve only seen her heart-shaped face, brown eyes, and neatly swept-up auburn hair on TV or the cover of a cookbook.
Timothy’s mother isCelia Foley.
Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t he tell me sometime in the last five years his mother is the goddamned face of the Home Cooking Network? I don’t watch a lot of TV, but Celia iseverywhere.
“How’s he doing?” she peers around me at her son, keeping her voice low as she releases me.
“He was up, for a little while, talking.” Asking me to marry him, talking about his dick, the usual. “He’s going to be fine.”
“Bounces back like rubber. Or a polymer or whatever.” Celia smiles, reaching into her designer handbag and pulling out a small flask. She presses the smooth metal into my hand. “Timothy’s favorite whiskey. I don’t know what you drink, but I figured there was a chance you liked it too. How are you doing?”
I stare at the flask clapped in my hands. “Um, you know Timothy and I aren’t married, right? We’re just friends.”
Celia waves that off. “Nic filled me in. I was a little surprised Timothy gave you power of attorney and made you the sole beneficiary of his will, considering he never told us about you, but—” Her eyes go wide. “No! I mean—shit.”
My eyes must be mirroring hers. “Hewhat?”
Her brows furrow. “I’m exhausted. It’s been a day. Please forget I said that. Timothy talks a lot, but it’s not always anything of substance, you know? He’s probably mentioned you, and I wasn’t listening.”
The hurt look on her face will have to wait—the part about him not mentioning me isn’t what’s freaking me out. “He…gave me power of attorney?”
Celia frowns. “Sweetie, you would’ve had to sign some papers in front of a notary or two witnesses. He couldn’t just give it to you. Though he can with the will. And he did.” Her tone shift tells me she’s not happy about that. Neither am I.
