25. 25
The group home workers give me a double take—but bless them, they do not make a fuss. They clearly know Miles as he greets everyone he sees. None of the residents seem to know who I am, and most stay busy with the tasks the workers have them on.
We walk through the living room and into the kitchen, Miles introducing me to each man as we go.
Eddy might be the youngest of the bunch at thirty-three. He sits with one of the workers, planning a menu for the week. He takes a break from his task and gives me a light handshake, happily taking the pug I brought.
Arnold and William work together on a hard wooden puzzle of farm animals but happily give me a minute when I offer them each a gift.
Tuff, gray-haired with the eyes of a little boy, draws a picture with markers, the large mat beneath his paper marked up where he’s missed his coloring sheet. He drops each of his pens and looks from me to the dog I’m holding out to him.
“It’s a gift, Tuff. From Delaney,” Miles explains.
He smiles, one of his front teeth missing and takes the stuffed animal from my hands.
Mikey sits in a recliner, rocking back and forth, staring at a gameshow on the TV screen. All men have taken a minute to say hello to us—except for Mikey. He stays silent. I set the dog next to him and with his eyes glued to the screen he pays the plush Rottweiler no attention.
“Where’s Walt?” I ask. We’ve yet to meet Miles” friend.
“He must be in his room.”
Tuff has decided to leave his drawing behind and follow us down the dim hallway. “Deeee-laney,” he says, shaking out his hands.
“Hey, Tuff,” Miles says, glancing back at the man. He’s clearly not worried about our tag-along. “Is Walt in his room?”
“In his room,” Tuff answers.
“Is he having a sad day?” Miles asks as we meander down a dim hallway.
“Sad day,” Tuff says, stuffing his poodle under his armpit and shaking his hands towards the door.
“Thanks, buddy. Can you go show your dog to Jo and Denise? They’ll want to meet him.”
“Jo,” Tuff repeats. He turns around and heads for the kitchen, where Jo helps Eddy with his menu.
Miles peers back at me as if to check on my comfort level.
“He’s sweet,” I say, letting him know that I’m good.
“He’s a good guy.”
Miles taps on the door at our right and waits. When there’s no reply, Miles taps again. “Walt, I brought someone who wants to meet you.” Still no reply. “And she brought you a gift.”
There’s a rustling inside the room, and then, “All right.”
I knew a gift was a good idea. I bounce my brows at Miles, saying as much.
He lifts one shoulder, and while he hasn’t said a word, this means he agrees with me. He opens the unlocked door and peeks inside the room before opening the door wider for me to enter. Walt’s room is small, with a bed, a small dresser, and a desk against the wall. Above his desk hang a dozen paintings—his own, I’d guess from looking at them.
His head, brown hair with sprigs of gray, bows low with his chin tucked in. There’s a children’s book on the desk he sits by, but he’s looking at his lap, not the book. His hair is thin on top, and what little there is left is combed over the top of his head. The wrinkles around his eyes and lips tell me he’s lived a few years. But when he looks up, finally meeting Miles’ gaze and then mine, he grins, and those eyes and that smirk are youthful and sweet.
“You brought a gift?” he says, looking at me. “For me?”
“She did,” Miles says, “but first, can I make introductions?”
Walt sighs like it’s a big inconvenience for him to meet me—and already I like him. “Okay.”
“This is Delaney,” Miles says, glancing back at me. He returns his eyes to Walt, waiting for the man’s reaction. Then, unlike with the others, he adds, “My wife.”
Walt does not disappoint. His mouth drops to a gaping O, and his eyes turn to sweet little moons as he giggles uncontrollably. “Wife. Wife.” He shakes his head. “Miles has a wife!”
“I do.” Miles chuckles. “And she brought you something because she knows we’re pals.”
Walt’s brows raise, wrinkling up every bit of his forehead. He looks at me and then down at the stuffed dog in my hands.
“Oh, right.” I giggle, suddenly nervous. Walt is Miles’ friend. While we aren’t exactly married married, I want him to approve. “Here.” I hold out the bulldog with a blue-and-yellow collar. “It’s so nice to meet you, Walt.”
Walt is still grinning like a schoolboy. He holds out one hand, his fingers thin and stiff. Miles takes the dog and helps Walt to grasp the thing. Walt giggles again, looking into the face of that smiling bulldog.
“He needs a good name.” He nods, his chin jutting out, then looks up at me. “What’s her name again?” he asks Miles.
“Lane,” I answer, giving him the easier version of my name.
Another giggle slips through Walt’s lips. “Lane.” He pats the dog’s head, then drops him in his lap, that mischievous grin still blooming on his cheeks. “Good boy, Lane.”
“I like it,” I tell him. I give him a thumbs-up—but for some reason that only sets Walt into another fit of laughter.
Miles shakes his head, but he’s smiling like Walt and I are two troublemakers, and yet he can’t help but adore us. “Hey, buddy, Delaney and I come with news.” Miles sits on the made bed next to his friend, setting a hand on top of Walt’s. “We got the building.”
Walt’s bushy brows jolt upward, saying so much more than words ever could. “We got it?”
“With Delaney’s help, yes, we got it.”
“No, the credit goes to Miles.” My eyes blur with unshed and unexpected tears.
Walt’s grin explodes now. “We got the building!” He howls. He pushes on the knob of his electric wheelchair, and I stumble back and out of the way. He straightens out his chair and faces it toward the door. “Let’s go.”
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Break there, stud.” Miles taps the arm of Walt’s chair. “We got the building all right, but—” Miles lifts Walt’s hand from the go button. “Lars has to move his stuff out. We need some time to get it ready.”
Walt blows out a raspberry, spittle spraying over the front of his shirt and lap. He knocks his head against the headrest of his chair and groans.
“Can you give us two weeks, Walt?” I ask. “I think I can pull some strings and get some help to speed up the process.”
Walt’s clear blue eyes stare into mine, his lips in a flat line. “Two weeks,” he says to me, his tone serious. Swiveling his head back around to Miles, he giggles. “Miles, your wife is hot.”