“Those roses stopped blooming a while ago.” Her voice is soft. Like she’s talking to herself. “My mom was the one …”
Her words trail off.
Something else I don’t have to ask about.
“I bet my dad won’t even remember why he went out in the yard.” She gives her head a shake. “And this is Noah’s last week with us.”
Okay, now I have to ask.
“What’s the deal with Noah?”
“Oh, he took a position as the head of PT at Havenwood.” A small, sad laugh slips out of her. “It’s the best memory care facility in the area, and Noah’s the best, so yeah. I get why they need him. But we need him too.”
Her sigh might as well be a sledgehammer pounding my sternum.
“Your dad likes him?”
“So much.” She nods. “Noah started out in occupational therapy at an adjacent rehab, then a few years ago, he transitioned into PT. So he can do pretty much everything.”
“Sounds like a real jack-of-all-trades.”
“More like Superman, with a man bun.” Another sigh. Another sledgehammer. “Which is why losing him hits so hard.”
I hate that losing Noah Super Man Bun hits so hard for her. For so many reasons. But this situation isn’t about me. Not even a little. “So what’s your next step?”
“Great question,” she says. “My dad’s probably going to need round-the-clock care soon, but I can’t even begin to afford that. And he flat-out refuses to let me move back home. He says he doesn’t want to be a burden. That I need to live my life.” She takes a beat. “If I told him the way I’m livingnow might be worse, he’d be crushed. But the alternative is crushing his pride.”
“So.” I exhale. “No easy options.”
“And even if I force the issue and move home, I’ll be gone way too much when school starts again.”
“Right.” My grip increases on the wheel. I’ve been watching Loren silently shoulder impossible weight from the moment we met. “Just a gentle reminder that I’m more than willing to?—”
“Rosalind isn’t an easy option, either,” she interrupts.
“But—”
“You’re not a genie, Bridger. You’re my friend. And friends don’t let friends marry Rosalind Winthrop … ummm …”
“Barrington.”
The wordfriendon her lips is a lung puncture. Three times. So I’m out of air and arguments as we continue the rest of the way to her childhood home.
The address is new to me. I’ve never even met Loren’s dad. She said new people can be confusing. And I hated being the new guy.
So I didn’t push.
But now I’m here. The place where Loren grew up. The neighborhood’s well-maintained. Mature trees. Neat flower beds and freshly mowed lawns. There’s pride of ownership, for sure. Her dad’s house sits near the end of a cul-de-sac. The paint on the shutters looks like it’s peeling a bit, and my gut twists.
I want to repaint the whole damn house for her.
“This is it,” she says.
A giant truck sits parked in her driveway.
Noah-with-a-man-bun is still here.
Loren makes a move to open the passenger door, but I hop out first and jog around to her side. Hand extended. Just another excuse to touch her.