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“Nick?” I asked after the phone was answered. “It’s Skylar. Yeah, I’m at the hospital now. Is...you know...there tonight?”
Nick answered quickly, but I ignored his avalanche of warnings.
“All right, all right, all right,” I replied. “I get it. Just tell him I’ll be there Monday night. Tell him I’ll have whatever he wants.”
I pressed the end button and stepped out to the street to hail a cab. My stomach had flipped about four times during the call, and my hands were shaking. Even so, for the first time all night, I felt a sense that I could fix things, even if just a little.
Thirty-One
The next morning, I woke up to the smell of pancakes. I squinted in the bright sunlight. A dust-speckled ray of light speared the dark interior through a crack in the blinds, landing directly on my face. I sat up and shoved my glasses over my nose.
A glance down at my alarm clock informed me that it was nine o’clock. I groaned. It was well past three by the time I’d finally managed to fall asleep last night. I pushed my blankets aside and slipped my feet into my slippers. My suitcase was still in the back of Brandon’s car, and everything I still had at the house was all remnants of high school. The Care Bear-covered pajama pants were a Christmas gag gift, my over-sized Snoopy t-shirt a souvenir from a family trip to Atlantic City. I shoved my head through a ratty green hoodie with a peeling Department of Sanitation logo across the front.
As I walked down to the main floor, the pancakes were even stronger, and I heard Bubbe’s laughter wafting up with it. Laughter? The last time I’d spoken with her, she’d been close to hysterical. When I crept into the house last night, she’d been asleep in her favorite armchair, the TV blaring with reruns ofThis Old House.
I entered the kitchen and found Brandon sitting at the table, long legs spread comfortably while he sipped coffee. He wore his usual jeans and a navy Henley, but still managed to look runway-ready—a far cry from my sweatshirt and ratty pajamas. He brightened visibly when he saw me in the doorway.
“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Brandon said with a show-stopping smile. “I was just about to sneak upstairs and drag you out of bed. Nice get-up, by the way.”
I narrowed my eyes, making him laugh, and shoved a hand through my uncombed hair.
“Whatever,” I mumbled. I trudged over to where Bubbe stood at the stove and laid my head on her small shoulder. “Morning, Bubbe. Is there hot water for tea?”
“It’ll be ready in a minute,bubbela. I started it when I heard you coming down.”
From far away, you wouldn’t have known she’d spent the last twenty-four hours worried sick about her son. But up close, the bags under her eyes were pronounced, and her normally impervious helmet of hair had multiple strands out of place. More noticeable was the absence of commentary about my appearance, noisy footsteps, or any other improvements she felt I should make.
I kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Bubbe. You’re the best.”
I took a seat across from Brandon, who watched me curiously over his cup.
“When did you get here?” I asked quietly when he reached over to squeeze my hand. “I thought you were staying at a hotel.”
“I did. But when I didn’t hear from you last night, I got worried, so I came over first thing. Your grandmother was up and let me in.”
“He came over like a gentleman to check on your father and offer help,” Bubbe added as she flipped a pancake onto a plate already stacked with them. A skillet loaded with scrambled eggs sizzled as she stirred them around. “I don’t understand why you didn’t offer to let him stay here. We’re not animals, Skylar. We have a guest room.”
She turned around to look knowingly at Brandon, as if the sagging double bed shoved into the corner of a room mostly dedicated to storing Dad’s instruments demonstrated something critical about our wealth. It wouldn’t have taken her long to figure out that Brandon had money. Through the window, I could see David’s silhouette in the Mercedes. Even in his casual attire, Brandon looked like he had walked out of a fashion spread, and the white gold of his watchband gleamed, untarnished in the sunlight.
I shook my head. The last thing I needed was for Bubbe to get dollar signs in her eyes. I’d be getting engagement tips every day for the next month.
“I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Mrs. Crosby. I’m sure your guest room is a lot more comfortable than the stiff beds at the Waldorf,” Brandon said as he hid a smile behind the rim of his mug.
“Ooh, the Waldorf!”
Humming with approval, Bubbe brought over the plate of pancakes and eggs. I hopped up from my chair when the kettle on the stove began to whistle.
“Any word on Dad this morning?” I asked as I started the process of making my tea.
Bubbe took a seat and began serving everyone monstrous portions, starting with Brandon. “They said he’s awake and should be ready to get out of that place tomorrow. Are you going to visit today?”
I nodded as I sat down. Brandon slid a warm hand over my knee, but didn’t stop shoveling eggs into his mouth. Bubbe watched with satisfaction; the guy could really eat.
“Yes, I am,” I answered her. “He still hasn’t seen me. Plus, I also want to find out the official prognosis for his hand.”
“Oy, his poor hand,” Bubbe said as she clasped her own palm to her cheek. “Your poor father—I don’t know what he’ll do if it doesn’t heal right, if he can’t play anymore. Music is my Daniel’s real joy, you see,” she informed Brandon, who nodded, mouth full.
“I think the bigger question is when he can get himself into some kind of therapy,” I said dryly.
