Chapter 19
I’m usuallygood in a crisis, but not when it comes to Gramps.
Weaver may turn out to be the love of my life, but Gramps is also my person.
We fuss over how to run the business, what to eat for dinner, and whether he’s actually allergic to cats on a regular basis, but he’s the only human in the world who’s never let me down. He’s like my mom and dad and grandfather and best friend all wrapped up into one salty old man package.
If I lose him, I will lose a piece of myself.
“I can’t believe I didn’t check on him,” I say, throwing my toiletries into my bag in the bathroom as tears stream down my cheeks. “I should have checked. I should have been the one. Not Aunt Cathy.”
Weaver appears behind me, squeezing the tops of my shoulders. “You had no reason to worry. You were on the boat with him yesterday and he was fine.”
I sniff and squirm away from his comforting touch.
I don’t deserve comfort.
Not when I’m the worst granddaughter on earth.
“Yes, but Cathy told me last night that she couldn’t get ahold of him,” I say. “I assumed he was just dodging her calls because talking on the phone annoys him, but I should have called to be sure. Or texted or…something.” I sniff and swipe at my wet cheeks. “If he dies, and I don’t even get to say goodbye, I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Baby,” Weaver begins, but I cut him off with a swift shake of my head.
“No, don’t be sweet to me. I can’t take it. If you’re sweet, I’ll fall completely apart, and we’ll never get to the hospital. I need cold, logical Weaver. Just tell me to pull myself together, get dressed, and get my ass down to the car.”
He sighs, but straightens behind me, the softness fading from his expression. “All right, if you’re sure that’s what you need.”
I nod faster and toss my toothpaste into the bag. “Yes. That’s what I need.”
His hand closes around my wrist, stopping me before I can reach for another toiletry. “Then, that’s what I’ll give you. Stop packing and get into the shower. Right now.”
My jaw drops and an outraged squawk emerges from the back of my throat.
Before I can protest that we have to get going, however, Weaver says, “Look at yourself. Do it,” he insists. “Take a breath and look at yourself in the mirror.”
I do and blanche at the sight of my hair in a wild sex tangle and my tear-puffy face.
But I don’t care what I look like right now.
I tell Weaver as much, adding, “I just need to be with him. Now. Five minutes ago.”
“I’ve already called to have the car brought up to the front,” he says, still holding onto my wrist. “But the parking garage is several blocks away. The valet said it’s going to take fifteen minutes. Take ten of that to grab a quick shower and put on clean clothes. I’ll leave some outside the door for you. While you’re doing that, I’ll pack our things and run downstairs to get breakfast and coffee for the road. That way we can leave as soon as you’re dressed.”
I swallow, my frantic brain parsing quickly through his plan and realizing it’s solid. And a shower will help clear my thoughts after a long night filled with high emotion and not much sleep.
“Okay,” I say, sniffing again as I shoo him out of the bathroom. “Go. Hurry. I’ll be ready when you get back.”
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I crank on the water and strip out of the t-shirt and panties I slept in. I take the world’s fastest shower, run oil through my hair to keep my waves from frizzing, and rub lotion onto my face, before tossing all my toiletries back into the bag. A beat later, I throw open the door and snatch a pile of neatly folded clothes from the floor.
Weaver chose the “going home” outfit I intended to wear on Sunday—a comfy pair of baggy jeans and a sky-blue sweatshirt—and I’m so glad. The thought of putting on the clingy sweater dress and boots I packed for today in an attempt to be fashionable makes me want to claw my skin off.
I’ve just finished dressing and am tying my shoes in the living area when Weaver swings back through the door, a delicious-smelling bag in hand. My stomach growls, and I instantly feel guilty again.
How can I be hungry at a time like this? Gramps could be dying. He might never eat a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich again.
“Even if he lives, he shouldn’t eat bacon, egg, and cheese again,” I say, tears stinging into my eyes. “His cholesterol is too high. I’ve been telling him that for years, but he wouldn’t listen. He said life wasn’t worth living without cheese.”
Weaver crosses the room, pressing the bag of food and the small carrier holding our coffees into my hands. “You can google healthy cheese alternatives on the way to the hospital. Go call the elevator. I’ll get our bags.”
“No, I’ll help, you can’t handle all of it?—”
He leans down, capturing my chin in his hand as he whispers inches from my face. “I absolutely can handle all of it by myself. And take care of you at the same time. Go call the elevator, Sullivan, and don’t back talk again until we’re at the hospital.”
Grateful tears in my eyes, I whisper, “Okay. Thank you.”
“I love you,” he says, making the stinging at the back of my nose even worse. “Taking care of you when you need help is my job. You never have to say thank you for that.” Then, he presses a swift, but firm, kiss to my lips and disappears into the bedroom to collect the bags.
Three minutes later—two minutes ahead of schedule thanks to the speedy valet—Weaver is pulling out of the hotel driveway and onto the road.
“Do you need me to navigate?” I ask, chewing on my lip, my anxiety spiking higher now that there’s nothing to do but sit and wait.
I wanted to drive, but I knew better than to ask. Weaver is an excellent driver and he’s the safer choice. I wouldn’t want someone as panicked as I am driving me anywhere. That’s for sure.
“No, it’s all set.” He nods toward the map on the dashboard’s screen, which is already guiding us in the right direction.
“Oh,” I say, feeling dumb. “Sorry. I should have seen that.”
“Stop apologizing.” He reaches over, resting his hand on my thigh for a beat, waiting until I relax beneath his touch before giving it a gentle squeeze. “Eat your sandwich and have some coffee.” He shoots me a sympathetic glance before returning his attention to the road. “But maybe not too much coffee. You’re already pretty wired.”
“I am,” I agree, forcing my muscles to relax into the warm leather seat. Exhausting myself with fear and worry before we even get to the hospital isn’t going to accomplish anything. I need to save my energy to be there for Gramps and the rest of my family. “But coffee still sounds good, and I’m actually starving. We had five courses last night. How am I this hungry?”
I reach for the bag at my feet, fetching the sandwich with the “G” written on the foil for myself and passing the one with “W” on it over to Weaver. Mine is bacon, egg, and cheese. His will be just bacon and cheese because he likes his eggs scrambled and alone on a plate.
I know these things about him already. And he knows so many things about me. It’s crazy how comfortable I feel with him after only a week, but I’m so grateful I do. I wouldn’t want to be making this drive with someone who didn’t make me feel completely safe and supported.
Hell, I wouldn’t want to be making this drive with anyone else, I realize, not even Maya or Elaina. I love my besties, but they’re both even more emotional than I am. Weaver’s cool, calm, bossy side comes in handy in lots of situations, but especially in a crisis.
“I’m hungry, too,” he says as he unwraps his sandwich. “We did a fair amount of cardio after dinner.”
I sigh, both at the memory of that amazing cardio and how hopeful I felt. Last night, I was on the verge of walking through a portal into a thrilling new world.
This morning, real life is bringing me back down to earth with a vengeance.
My stomach lurches and my throat squeezes so tight, I can barely swallow my next bite.
I can’t leave Sea Breeze with Weaver the way we planned. I can’t. Not now, and maybe not ever. What if Gramps needs long-term care? I couldn’t leave him with Cathy or anyone else. He would be miserable. I’m the only person he can stand underfoot more than a couple hours a day.
I press my lips together, fighting the waves of grief and guilt as they hit, one after the other.
After a few moments, Weaver asks, “Sandwich not up to snuff?”
“What?” I croak, fighting tears for the hundredth time since I hung up with Cathy.
“Your sandwich. Is it bad?” he asks. “You only took two bites before you stopped eating. If it’s bad, I can get you something else from the hospital cafeteria.”
I jerk my attention his way, the vice around my throat giving way as shock frees up my airway. “What? You can’t come in.”
“I can, and I will,” he says, adjusting the rim of his simple beige ballcap. “That’s why I bought this disguise at the gift shop while you were showering.”
I let my gaze skim down his body, taking in his outfit for the first time. He’s wearing a white “Saint Mary Yacht Club” sweatshirt that totally isn’t his style. He still has on gray suit pants—Weaver isn’t a khakis or jeans kind of guy—but his overall look is much more casual than usual. The baggy sweatshirt conceals his chiseled upper body and the cap sits low enough on his face to cast half of it in shadow.
But still…
He’s still obviously Weaver Tripp and my family is going to know him on sight.
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, but no, you can’t. This is going to be hard enough without having to answer questions from my family about why I was out of town with a Tripp. Especially you.” I shudder as another realization dawns. “And my dad might be there. He’s not into family stuff most of the time, but if he was remotely sober when Cathy called him, I’m sure he’s on his way to the hospital. He loves Gramps.”
“Does he?” Weaver asks, his voice cooling. “Or does he just love that his father still pays his bills?”
I bristle. “Stop. My dad loves Gramps. He does. Truly.”
“Last night you were talking about how much more you were able to save for your grandfather’s retirement because you stayed in Sea Breeze and sacrificed your chance to go to college. I’m sure your grandfather would have been able to save just as much by simply cutting your father off. Leon is a grown man and should be paying his own way, not cannibalizing his daughter’s future and his father’s golden years.”
I exhale and wrap the foil back around my sandwich. It’s actually delicious, but my appetite is gone. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“You don’t want to talk about it? Or you don’t want to admit to yourself that for your entire life, your family has been putting your welfare last, when it should have been first?”
I huff and shake my head. “Why should it be first? Because I’m young? Family is family. We all help each other and?—”
“Because you’re the only innocent person in the situation,” Weaver cuts in, his tone still calm, but the words making my blood boil all the same. “You did nothing wrong. You aren’t an alcoholic, and you didn’t decide to enable an alcoholic at the cost of your own livelihood. You were a child born into a dysfunctional situation, but instead of doing everything they could to get you out, your family is doing their best to suck you down with them.”
My cheeks burning, I shoot back, “So, what should we have done? Let Dad starve and die?”
“Maybe,” Weaver says, making me flinch. “If that was the only way to keep the rest of you safe. Paying for rehab or some form of treatment is one thing, something I would personally support. But paying his bills while he sits around getting drunk and destroying himself? How is that helping anyone? Even him? But especially you, the daughter he should be taking care of?”
I rub at the tight place in my jaw, hating that a part of me agrees with him. “You don’t understand. You don’t have a family like mine. We help each other. It’s what we do.”
“Like I said, the situation doesn’t seem ‘helpful’ to me. Not to anyone. Your father is drowning, but instead of reaching for a life preserver, he’s wrapped his arms around his father and his daughter. You’ve been treading water as hard as you could with dead weight hanging from your shoulders, but it’s time to stop, Sully. For yourself and for your grandfather. Think how much less he’ll need to live on if he cuts your dad off and focuses on taking care of himself?”
“I can’t think about this now,” I say, digging my fingers into my temples. I never get headaches, but right now an ugly one is clawing into my skull. “And you can’t come in to the hospital. That’s final.”
He sighs, as frustrated as I am.
Maybe more so, since he clearly doesn’t understand why what he’s suggesting would be so hard.
I love my dad, really love him, no matter how many times he’s let me down or how strained our relationship has become over the years. I still remember the way he’d push me on the swings as a kid, the way he’d buy me a snow cone from the cart on the pier or a stuffed animal from the toy store, even when Mom said we needed to save money. I remember lying on his strong chest in the sun on the beach when I was so tiny that my hair was still white as it blew around my face, feeling so safe and loved because my daddy was there to take my nap with me.
Those things are still true and real. They live inside me even though that version of my father is gone, probably forever.
But I can’t turn my back on the man in that memory. It would be like setting the last of the goodness between us on fire.
The fact that Weaver can’t understand that makes me wonder if we’re really meant for each other, after all. I mean, I knew he didn’t have a good relationship with most of his family, but isn’t there anyone he would go that extra mile for? One person he would help no matter what? No matter how many times they failed to rise to the occasion and needed his help again?
I’m about to ask him when he says, “What if I stay in the cafeteria? I’ll grab a cup of coffee, find a dark corner, and keep my hat pulled down low. Then, if you need me, you can text, and we’ll find somewhere private to meet. I don’t want to leave you there alone. I should have thought of that before I offered my unsolicited advice at a difficult time.”
Instantly, I melt.
Maybe there is someone Weaver is willing to go that extra mile for.
And maybe it’s…me.
Chest aching at the thought, I nod. “Okay. That sounds good. Thank you.”
I don’t tell him that I wouldn’t really be alone at the hospital, not with my entire family there. I don’t want to seem ungrateful for his support, and there’s a part of me that is starting to feel “alone” without Weaver.
We don’t pull any punches with each other. We haven’t from the beginning. But with my family? I pull punches all the time. I keep secrets and soften blows and sometimes, I just lie.
I don’t like to, but when it’s the kindest choice, I do.
I lie to Gramps about how quickly I can see him slowing down. I lie to my cousin, Henna, about how many days a week I see her husband lingering at the pub for another drink, when she’s been at home alone all day with their two kids. I lie to Elaina about what the mean people in town say about her “raunchy” café and raunchier habits, and I lie to Maya about that the fact that not one of the men I hang out with has ever asked about my shy best friend.
I tell Maya tons of guys are interested, whenever she’s ready. I tell Elaina that Sweet Pussy Cafe is a great name for her bakery and she should keep it.
And I tell myself that the way the Sullivans do things is the best way because I want it to be the best. I want to believe that all the sacrifices I’ve made are because I’m a good daughter and granddaughter and niece and cousin, not because I’m a shmuck who’s let myself be used and abused by people too distracted by their own drama to have my best interests at heart.
My family doesn’t want to hurt me, I know that with every bone in my body. But have they hurt me without meaning to? Without even realizing what they were doing?
I honestly…don’t know.
There’s enough doubt inside that I’m not about to kick Weaver out of my life for saying the things he said. Especially when it’s obvious he was saying those things because he cares about me.
He really does care. This successful, gorgeous, supportive, sexy as hell man really does seem to love me. And I feel the same way about him. He’s everything I wasn’t brave enough to want until I met him.
But if it comes down to a choice between Weaver and my family—a very real possibility—which will I choose?
I don’t know the answer to that, either.
I only know that I need Gramps to be okay. After that, maybe I’ll have the bandwidth to take a closer look at the rest of my messed-up life.
I push the bigger questions aside as best I can, eat my now-cold sandwich, and brace myself for the worst as Weaver gets on the highway headed south toward the hospital.
But not even in my wildest fever dreams could I have imagined the shit show that awaits us just outside of Bangor…