“That’s great.” My smile is genuine but I can’t help the pain that comes with it. The same woman who used to run football plays with me in the backyard and chase me down the beach at Nag’s Head as a kid is having to learn to walk again. “How’s your pain? We still have those prescriptions for the stronger pain meds if you?—”
“And I told you I’m not taking those,” she interjects, tone final.
I slide my tongue over my teeth, biting back my retort.
Bri’s dad disappeared after getting addicted to opioids in the wake of a freak accident at the factory where he worked. One dumb mistake on a forklift and the trajectory of all our lives changed forever. Mom lost another husband, an eleven-year-old Bri lost a father, and I got thrust into the role of man of the house at only seventeen.
“I hear you,” I say. My gut tells me Mom would never get addicted the way Doug did, but it doesn’t matter. For Bri’s sake, she won’t take them. End of story.
“Good. Now, how areyoudoing?”
Spinning around, I lean against the wall and scan the tiny store. “It’s a lot. I just wish I’d been here more. Ishould’vebeen here.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, kiddo. You know Norm never wanted anyone fawning over him.”
Deep down, I know she’s right. But I can’t imagine ever living without this twinge of regret in my chest.
“Your dad was the same way.” She chuckles under her breath. “Stubborn. Obstinate. Refused to ask for help. But at their core they were both giant?—”
“Giant teddy bears. Yeah, I know.”
When it comes to Dad, I mostly take Mom’s word for it. He was deployed more than not when I was a kid, so my memories, though all positive, are few and far between.
“Anyway,” I continue, “I’ve got a little over two more weeks here and then I’ll be back.”
“No rush. Walker’s been a big help.”
“Speak for yourself,” Bri scoffs in the background. Mom and I laugh.
She and I chat for a few more minutes before her head starts to hurt and I urge her to take a nap.
Once she gets Mom set up with a couple of ibuprofen and closes her in her room, Bri’s back on the line. “She won’t let me fill those prescriptions. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I know, it’s not your fault.”
There’s a heavy sniff on her end. “Rowan, she’s in pain and she won’t take the meds she needs because of me.”
Silence falls. The bell over the door of the hardware store jingles. I angle myself into the corner and lower my voice. “She loves you too much to risk it.”
I can’t discern through the phone all the worry and unspoken doubt that must be invading her mind. Before our families merged, Bri and Doug were a solo act much the same way Mom and I were. Bri’s mom died in childbirth, and my dad had been killed in action in Afghanistan. For all intents and purposes, Tess is the only mom Bri has ever known since she was barely seven years old. Her dad may have left a few short years later but my mom has always loved her like she was her own.
Bri never responds so I opt for a subject change. Maybe she needs a distraction like I did when I made this call. “How’s it really going with Dubs?”
She huffs and the mood lightens. “Chuckis on gutter repair duty.” Emphasis on the nameChucklike it personally offends her.
If you ever need Walker Willis to prove his loyalty, just ask him to climb a ladder, jump off a high dive—literally anything involving heights. The highly decorated, elite-caliber soldier who consistently hits targets over a thousand meters away will fight a guerrilla in hand-to-hand combat, but jumping out of a plane with a parachute strapped to his back has him signing the cross over his chest, clutching his grandmother’s rosary until the last possible second. But, dammit, he’ll do it for the people he cares about. Every time, without question.
“You know he’s scared of heights, right?” I ask.
“And?”
I snicker.
“Fine,” she concedes. “He’s been mildly helpful. A modicum, really. Happy now?”
“Mildly. A modicum, really.” I push off the wall and head back to the doorknobs. “Listen, be nice to him, okay? He’s a lot but he’s a good guy. One of the best, actually.”
Bri lets out a long breath. “I know. And I will.”