Chapter Eighteen Remi
Chapter Eighteen
Remi
“Let’s mark that one for donation.”
“Like hell. That’s my favorite couch.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Pops, we do not have space for that couch, which you knew. We’re going to let someone else love it as much as you have.”
He snatched the green Post-its from Gavin’s hands, the ones used to flag items that would be picked up by the donation center.
Gavin gave me a wide-eyed look.
I leaned forward, snatching the stack of papers back. “We talked about this.”
Pops glared. “I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
“See, I knew this would happen.” As I pulled my phone from my back pocket, I gave Pops an indulgent smile. “This is why we made video proof.”
“Shit.”
“Language,” I admonished without any heat. “Ahh, there it is.”
I handed him the phone and pressed play. His entire face filled the screen, a lovely close-up of his nose coming into the frame.
“Where am I looking?” he said in the video.
“Back up, Pops. Not so close,” I said in the background. “We don’t need to see your nose hairs.”
The shot was pulled back, and Pops peered over the rim of his glasses into the camera. “What do you want me to say?”
“Repeat what we just agreed to.”
He let out a disgruntled sigh. “I, Harold Sinclair, do solemnly swear that I’ve agreed to get rid of all my furniture, except my dresser, the leather chair in my bedroom, and the bench on the patio.”
“And . . . ?” I prompted.
Pops rolled his eyes. “And I will not guilt my granddaughter into making me think I’ve forgotten this simply because I love that couch.”
“See? Was that so hard?”
“Yes.”
The video cut off, and I sent him a smug grin.
“Rude,” he muttered. “Who raised you?”
“You.”
Gavin waited for my nod, then smacked a green Post-it on the back of the couch. Pops glared at that too. “Perfectly good couch.”
“So is mine,” I reminded him. “It’s bigger than yours and doesn’t have springs that poke you in the ass if you sit wrong.”
He harrumphed. “Just keeps you from getting too comfortable. Kids these days watch too much TV anyway, so I think it’s a good thing.”
Gavin moved behind Pops and fiddled with the edge of his shirt collar.
No matter the weather, no matter the occasion, my grandfather always wore a short-sleeved dress shirt and a bow tie, with a white undershirt beneath that was visible through the top layer.
Today it was a light-blue shirt and a navy tie with white polka dots.
“Where’d you get this one?” Gavin asked, gently touching the bow tie.
“New York City,” he answered. “I was twenty years old and wanted something nice for my first day on the job in the county clerk’s office.
Your grandma, God rest her soul, went into the city with me, even though she hated it, and we picked out this and about five others. ” He winked. “Best ties in the world.”
“How many do you have in total?”
“Not sure.”
“Too many,” I answered. “But we won’t donate those, I promise.”
Pops motioned for one on the stack sitting on his dresser. Gavin picked up a red one with white pinstripes and held it out.
“No, you,” Pops said, tapping the side of Gavin’s neck. “Your turn, little bug.”
His eyes widened. “Really? You’ll teach me?”
“We’ll have more time together now, won’t we?”
While Pops drew Gavin closer and patiently walked him through the steps of how to tie a bow tie, I watched them from the corner of my eye as I folded a few of his favorite blankets, crocheted by my grandmother shortly after they’d gotten married.
No matter the season, the blankets that covered his bed were hers—one in shades of red and maroon and pink. The other, green and white and orange.
I ran my hand over the woven strands and closed the box, slid the packing tape over the top, and then marked the contents with a Sharpie.
Gavin ran over and tipped up his chin. “Look!”
It was lopsided and far too loose. I touched the tip of his nose. “Perfect.”
He ran into the bathroom to check his reflection, and Pops stood from his chair with a small groan. It was getting harder for him to get around, and he’d already fallen twice. The fact that he’d only ended up with bruises was a miracle, and the final straw in convincing him to move in with us.
“You sure about this, bug?”
I set the box of blankets on top of the others in the corner. “What do you think?”
He grimaced. “I just feel bad. I’ve always . . . I’ve always been able to take care of you. Feels wrong that you have to take care of me now.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and quietly watched him take a section of hangers holding his dress shirts and hang them in one of the wardrobe boxes. His grizzled face—the one I’d loved before I knew what love meant—looked sad.
“Family takes care of each other. Someone very wise used to tell me that when I’d worry about the same thing.”
He made a gruff, impatient noise. “That was different.”
“How? I was no picnic in high school. And then I brought home a baby about a month after I got my diploma. You’re telling me you’re going to be more high maintenance than that?”
Pops’s shoulders slumped. “I hate getting old, Remington.”
My heart squeezed when he called me that. It wasn’t my given name, but every once in a while, he said it was appropriate. His little pistol. The one that kept him young, he said.
I stood and slid my arm around his waist, laying my head on his stooped shoulder. “I know.”
He kissed the top of my head, patting my hand where it lay on his stomach. “I’ll be better about taking my meds, I promise. And maybe, hell . . . maybe I’ll eat healthier too. Cut back on my red meat and french fries.”
“Why do you think I’m giving up my guest room?
It’s so I can keep my eye on you all the time, old man.
” I dropped a quick kiss on his cheek and went back to packing more boxes.
“I’ll keep these out of your way for the next couple days.
I can take a few of them tonight, but I need to find someone with a truck who’ll help with your bed, the dresser, and the bench. ”
Gavin’s head popped around the corner. “What about Archer? He’s got a truck, and he’s already helped Mom once.”
Pops gave me a stern look. “Has he, now?”
“Oh yeah, he found me a babysitter and came over to the house and everything. He’s so tall!”
Since when did my kid get so friggin’ chatty?
“You told me it was just a few hours a week picking up dog shit.”
Gavin rolled his eyes. “Language, Pops.”
Pops waved him away. “I’m too old to stop swearing. You’ll get over it, kiddo.”
I slicked my tongue over my teeth and met Pops’s unrelenting stare. “Gavin, can you go get my water out of the car? I think I left it in the front seat.”
“Sure.” He took off.
Pops pointed. “That water?”
“Yup.” I picked it up off the floor, where it had been sitting out of Gavin’s line of sight. “It’s not how it sounds, okay? I needed a babysitter and his sister was available. She was amazing, actually. Gavin loved her.”
Pops’s mouth twisted into a frown. “I don’t like it. He’s a bad influence to have around Gavin. That boy might have been upset at first, but you get him around a man like that and he’ll idolize him even more than he already did.”
I rubbed my forehead. “I know.”
Boy, did I know. I’d added that to an entirely new list, the one I’d started repeating as a mantra when lying awake the last two nights, unable to think about anything else but him as sleep remained frustratingly out of reach.
“A man who drinks and drives is the kind of man—”
“Pops, please.”
“No, Remi, you have to listen. I know he’s handsome and successful, but—”
I set my hands on his shoulders. “Pops.”
At my firm tone, his head reared back. “What?”
Could I do it?
It would break my promise to Archer. But there were times when keeping a secret didn’t benefit anyone, falling squarely in shades of gray on the scale of right or wrong.
Just like lying to cover for someone you loved.
Guilt and indecision fought for the top spot in my head, but when it came down to it, I didn’t want Pops to hate him. I couldn’t handle him looking at Archer and thinking he was a bad person.
“I have to tell you something, but you cannot tell another soul. Do you understand me?”
He blinked. “You’re pretty serious, bug.”
“I mean it.” Then I held out my pinkie. “If you can’t keep it a secret, I can’t tell you.”
After a disgruntled sigh that I knew was for show more than anything, Pops hooked his pinkie around mine and squeezed. He tilted his chin. “This better be good.”
When I’d finished telling him Archer’s secret, his mouth hung open, and he fumbled behind himself for the chair, lowering his body slowly. “My God.”
“He’s not a bad person. I misjudged him, but a lot of that is because of what he wanted people to believe.”
Pops had a faraway look in his eye. “That’s a big lie to tell, bug.”
“I know.” I sat on the bed again, bracing my elbows on the tops of my thighs, my chin resting on my fisted hands. “I wish he’d come clean, but damn if I don’t respect him even more for not.”
His cloudy gray eyes were far too knowing when they came to rest on me again. “How much do you respect him?” he asked.
I rolled my eyes. “We’re . . . friends. Sort of. Trying to be.”
“Friends. With the quarterback of the Buffalo Storm.”
“Yup.”
And I also knew the general size and shape of his dick, but I was not going to be sharing that with the class.
“Huh. Well, will your friend let you borrow his truck?”
I laughed. “Probably. You sure you’d want me to ask him for help?”
“Why the hell not? He’s a lot stronger than both of us, and I can’t lift that damn dresser.” Pops stood again, smacking the arm of his chair as he did. “It’ll make him feel good, doing something for a helpless old man.”
I snorted. “‘Helpless’ my ass.”
“Language,” he said as he walked out of his bedroom.
With a sigh, I flopped back on the bed.
Gavin flew into the room, breathing heavily. “I looked everywhere. I don’t know where your water is.”
“It’s okay, bud. I found it.”
“Cool. Can I go mark those ugly dishes in the kitchen?”
“Whose dishes are ugly?” Pops bellowed.
Gavin giggled, disappearing from the room again.
For a moment, I closed my eyes. The need for a quick nap was so strong, but it was past dinnertime, and I really wanted to be able to sleep tonight.
Dinner. Shit. We hadn’t eaten yet.
“Do you guys want me to make something for dinner?” I called, eyes still closed. “I could whip up some omelets.”
“No,” they said in unison. A curious beat of silence followed.
“No thanks,” Gavin amended. “Pops said he’d order us some pizza.”
My brow furrowed. “You’re sure? That’ll take longer.”
“We’re sure,” Pops said. “You . . . you just text your friend about the truck. I’ll take care of dinner.”
“Fine.” I rolled onto my side and pulled up Archer’s contact information. A bright burst of nerves tipped my stomach sideways, then it righted almost immediately. This wasn’t big. Just a friend asking a friend for a favor.
Lies.
Lies, lies, lies.
Every interaction with this man was loaded, and by this point, it had gotten so far out of my control, there was nothing to do but try to keep a level head.
I needed a truck and some strong hands.
He had both.
And . . . he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole, so he’d probably say yes to anything I asked. Anything.
Any. Thing.
I set my jaw and started typing. No more nonsense. There was no need to spiral just because I was asking him for help. A grown-ass woman didn’t spiral over such things.
Me: Hey, I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but can I ask you a huge favor?
Archer: You’re interrupting a mighty battle with weeds along the side of my house. Ask away.
Me: You do your own weeding? I call bullshit.
Archer attached a picture—his face glistening with sweat, and next to his frowning, sweaty, glistening face was an angry-looking weed with clumps of dirt clinging to the roots.
The picture cut off just below his collarbone, but he was shirtless.
The rounded muscles of his shoulders made my mouth go dry. Those were all glisten-y too.
For fuck’s sake. Those shoulders were borderline indecent. And looking like that while frowning? Ridiculous. Some decorum in this pseudo-friendship would not go unappreciated.
Me: I stand corrected.
Archer: Tell me what you need.
Me: You and your truck. If you’re available.
Archer: I’m going to need more specifics, because I’m not sure we should trust my deductive abilities where you’re concerned.
Me: Are you trying to flirt with me? We’re friends now.
Archer: If I was flirting with you, you’d fucking know it.
Me: I guess I’ll have to take your word on that.
Me: I was hoping you’d be willing to help move a couple pieces of furniture. My grandfather is moving in with me and Gavin, and he has a few things he’s taking with him.
Archer: Of course. When do you need me?
Me: I think we’re both at the shelter tomorrow, but the day after?
Archer: As long as it’s after one, that works for me.
Archer: Just furniture?
Me: Yeah, I’m doing a couple trips today with boxes that I can fit in my car.
Archer: Don’t. Just let me handle everything.
Me: Are you sure? I didn’t mean for you to bring everything.
Archer: Haven’t you figured out by now that if I’m offering, then I want to do it?
Me: Thank you. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.
Archer: Feel free to thank me with a picture of what you’re doing. If you happen to be shirtless, it would keep us on even ground.
Me: Archer . . .
Archer: That was also not flirting. It was a statement of fact.
I sent him a picture of me glaring at the camera.
Archer: Exactly what I was hoping for. That’s one of my top five favorite facial expressions on you. Adding it to my list.
Archer: Must have the most beautiful glare I’ve ever seen.
Me: You’re ridiculous.
Archer: Remi?
Me: Yes.
Archer: That was me flirting.
My face was beyond heated as I tucked my phone away.
“Mom, what are you smiling about?”
I wasn’t. Was I?
Except I was. When my fingertips traced over my mouth, sure enough. Undeniable proof.
And when I looked over at Gavin, I was still smiling. “Nothing.”