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“What about me?”
Rebecca rolls her eyes. “Nobody said you can’t eat them.”
“That’s not the same, and you know it.”
“Fine,” she lets out a sigh. “I’ll bake you something too. As a thank you for getting my truck fixed.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Closing the distance between us, I press my mouth against hers. “Later?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
MIGUEL
“Do I look like a damn invalid to you?” Dad grumbles as I try to help him into the house two days later after he was finally discharged from the hospital.
“What you look like is a grumpy man-child who doesn’t know how to accept help when he clearly needs it,” I mutter to myself, but of course, the old man hears me and shoots me a death glare.
“I’ll give you a man-child.”
He pulls his arm out of my grasp, but after barely taking three steps, his legs wobble, and he stumbles forward.
“Fucking hell, Dad,” I yell, wrapping my hand around his elbow to steady him.
His breathing is hard, a layer of sweat coating his forehead, and his whole body is shaking from exertion.
He’s tired, not that the bastard would ever admit it out loud, especially not in front of me.
Dad’s been protesting since the moment we got to the hospital, and all through Mom getting his discharge papers taken care of. The stubborn man tried to walk to the car on his own, but one look from an older nurse had him popping his ass into the wheelchair instead. There was at least one person inthat hospital who knew how to deal with him, so I guess there was that.
That compliance, however, didn’t transfer to coming home because the moment the truck pulled to a stop, he was out of the car all on his own.
“Is your pride seriously more important? Do you want to end up in the hospital again? Just let me help you.”
“I’m f-fine,” he hisses. “I don’t need help.”
“Oh yeah, because nothing screams fine than a man barely standing on his feet after suffering a freakingheart attack.”
“Pre-heart attack,” Dad corrects.
He’s been repeating those two words like a parrot. I don’t know why he thinks there’s a kind of difference to be made.
“Yes, a pre-heart attack. Meaning you were fucking lucky to be alive, and you’re still able to move and do shit on your own.”
Dad turns to glare at me. “Watch that mouth, boy.”
“I’m not watching anything. You almostdied, Dad. I know you don’t give a crap about me and about what I think, but think about Mom. Think about how that would affect her. Think about Gage. What if he found your sorry ass dead in the barn? How would that affect him? Do you seriously want that?”
“Will you two stop it already?” Mom yells as she joins us in front of the house. She glares from Dad to me and back. “You’re both acting like complete dumbasses. Too similar for your own good. You” — she gently jabs her finger into Dad’s chest — “will stop grumbling and listen to what we tell you. You’ll accept help, start eating healthy, and youwillrecover, or so help me God, Luis, I will be the one to kill you myself, and you” — she turns to me, her finger meeting the center of my chest — “Your Dad loves you. He might not be the best at showing it, but he does love you.” Mom crosses her arms over her chest and glares at both of us. “I’ve let you two keep at this for way too long. It’s time for you to get your shit in order and talk like two adults.”
“Margie…” Dad starts to open his mouth, but Mom shoots him a death glare.
“I’m not joking, Luis. I let this go on for way too long. You have two amazing sons. One’s working his ass off to keep the family business thriving, the other one is living his wildest dreams despite all the obstacles we put in front of him. It’s time to let it go. I want all my boys home, and I want us to be happy and healthy so we can watch our grandchildren grow up. Is that too much to ask?”
“Fine,” Dad huffs.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“I said fine.”
