CHAPTER FOURTEEN FALLON #4
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I have no bedazzled coin purse in my possession.”
“It’s not in your possession, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a thing.” I raise my brow in hope.
“It’s not a thing.”
“Damn.”
Chuckling, he bumps me with his shoulder again. “Call me crazy, but do you think we’re becoming friends?”
“Where would you get that impression?” I ask, even though I can feel it. The lightness between us, the joking, the easy camaraderie. Sawyer—when not on a blind date and buried in his phone—seems like the kind of guy everyone wants to be friends with. The people pleaser. The do-gooder.
“You’re acting friendly toward me. I’m guessing if I was trapped under a rock, you wouldn’t walk by and take a video, but actually call for help.”
“Stuck under a rock, that’s your example?” I ask.
“It’s embarrassing that, as a screenwriter, I couldn’t come up with something more... death defying.”
“Like... if we were doing a trapeze act together, I wouldn’t necessarily let you fall to your death—I would consider catching you.”
“Or if I was deathly allergic to cilantro, and you saw a fleck of green on my taco, you’d slap it out of my hand before I could ingest the poison.”
“Not sure if I’d slap it out of your hand, but I’d consider slapping it out of your hand.”
“Ah,” he says with a nod. “So, does that mean if I was still stuck under the rock, you wouldn’t call someone for help but rather...”
“Consider calling someone,” I finish for him.
“So then... not friends.”
“Afraid not, but this water break was a delightful respite.”
“It was. But the floors aren’t going to take care of themselves.”
“Unfortunately.” I stand and offer my hand to him. He glances at it for a brief moment before grabbing it and letting me help him to his feet.
He eyes me with his cornflower blues, a color I’ve written off as boring, but today, they carry an extra glint in them. A knowing one. A glint so strong that it almost conveys a message. A message of victory.
Well, that won’t do. If he thinks he’s won me over, that he’s about to start a beautiful friendship with me, he’s sadly mistaken. I’m an iron maiden, emotionless, with no room to cultivate any new friendships. This shop is closed. No vacancy.
Move on.
There will be no friendships allowed.
“Stop looking at me like that and get to work.” I turn on my heel and bring my water bottle back to the windowsill, all the while trying to eliminate his hopeful gaze from my mind.
“What on God’s green earth is going on in here?” Sully yells from the doorway, startling both Sawyer and me as we finish installing the last of the floorboards in cabin number three.
“Sully,” I say loudly as my breath tries to catch up with my heart. “Goodness, you scared me.”
“Scared us ,” Sawyer says, one hand gripping his chest, the other gripping the wall next to him.
“You ripped up perfectly good carpet.” Sully taps his foot on the new white pine flooring. The flooring he chose when we were at Village Hardware—grumbled over all the options for half an hour before settling on the one he’d chosen first. “This looks cheap.”
If Sully were any other person, I could easily see myself pouncing on him. We’ve been laboring over these floors for the last four hours, and one single criticism will tip me over the edge of pleasant to snarly jaguar, ready to claw out an eyeball.
But since Sully is my grandfather whom I respect and admire greatly, and he has Alzheimer’s and clearly doesn’t recall the renovations we spoke about, I tread carefully.
I move over to the design plans hanging on the wall near the door, the ones Sully drew and signed so when he does forget, I can show him exactly what he approved.
I point to the papers. “You came up with all of these changes, down to the decor—with notes of red throughout the cabins to represent Grandma Joan.”
Sully stalks up to the plans and studies them closely.
I can see the confusion rippling across his face as he flips through the pages, looking over the samples as well as the color palettes.
My heart aches as he tries to understand the approval he’s made to all the changes.
I can’t imagine what it’s like to be in his brain, to be so utterly confused and unaware of your surroundings.
To still be living but lost in time, unaware of who you are or what’s happening in your everyday life.
He slips on a mask of indifference as he shuts the plans against the wall.
He doesn’t remember.
He doesn’t even recall any of the choices he made, but he’s the poster child for “fake it till you make it” because he grips his hands behind him, rocks on his heels, and says, “Everything looks in order.”
This is easily my least favorite thing he does—acting like he understands when he really has no clue what’s going on.
I know it’s a defense mechanism because he’s a proud man.
I know it’s painful, confusing, and heartbreaking for him that he goes through these moments in his day where he can’t recall anything.
His eyes land on Sawyer, and he straightens up. “Fallon, why don’t you introduce me to your boyfriend.”
Oh boy, it’s a really bad day.
“Sully, this is Sawyer. He’s helping with the renovations. Peter is my boyfriend.”
Sully glances to the side. I can tell he’s attempting to draw up any recollection of Peter.
“Right, right,” he says with a nod. “Well, Sawyer, if you ask my granddaughter out on a date, just know she really likes flowers. Daisies.”
Grandma Joan liked flowers... daisies, to be exact.
I turn to Sawyer and give him an apologetic look. “I’m going to take him back to the residence. I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time,” he says softly. “I’ll finish up here.”
I quietly thank him and take Sully by the arm. “I saw there were new episodes of that Renovation Nation show you like. Why don’t we get you something to eat so you can sit down and enjoy?”
He doesn’t say anything, but instead he lets me guide him up the sidewalk to the residence. Halfway there, he stops and faces me, his expression crestfallen. “Where’s Joan? She was supposed to make dinner. I think she’s mad at me.”
My heart snaps, and I attempt to hold it together. I slip my hand into Sully’s, our palms touching as I bring it up to my heart and carefully say, “Grandma Joan passed away several years ago, Sully.”
His eyes fill up with tears.
His lip trembles.
And his hand shakes in mine as his other hand drags up to his chest, clutching it in disbelief. “Not my Joannie,” he says, nearly crumbling to the ground.
Despair falls over us like the descending dark of the night, a blanket of sorrow offering no comfort, only pain.
“I’m sorry, Sully,” I say, my voice cracking, my emotions getting the best of me.
This happens maybe once a week—me reminding Sully how he lost the love of his life, and every time it seems to grow harder and harder to break the news.
Maybe because every time, I watch him handle the news with more and more anguish.
The frown lines in his face have grown deeper.
The tears in his eyes fall heavier. And the gasp of breath he takes when he hears the news has become more substantial.
“Do you want me to take you to your room?” I ask.
Solemnly, with a tear sliding down his crestfallen face, he nods.
We spend the rest of the walk in silence.
When we reach his room, he does exactly what I know he’s going to do.
He sits on his bed, feet dangling off the edge of the white woven comforter that has seen many years, and carefully reaches over to his nightstand, where he picks up a framed picture of Grandma Joan.
His shaky hand passes over the glass, and tears crest over his eyes and down his worn cheeks.
Heartbreaking. It’s the only way I can describe it. Truly heartbreaking.
Sully and Grandma Joan had the kind of marriage people write about, built on a foundation of friendship and grown through loyal and trustworthy love.
They had their fights and their moments where everything wasn’t beautiful, but they also respected each other and shared an unmatched, undying love.
Sully worshipped the ground Grandma Joan walked on and did everything up until her last breath to make sure she was always happy, cared for, and loved.
Seeing him grieve constantly, over and over again, is taking a toll on me.
It’s absolutely wrecking me.
“Sully,” I say on a shaky breath, taking a step toward him.
He clutches the frame to his chest, his toughened hands trembling. His eyes are cast down, his tears staining his blue khaki pants as he sniffles. “I’d like to be alone.”
Like he always wants, and I always respect his privacy, even though all I want to do is wrap him into a hug and tell him how much I love him.
“Okay. Let me know if you need anything.”
I know he won’t.
I know he’ll stay in his room, clutching this picture.
I know he’ll open his box of love letters he’s kept from Grandma Joan and read them over and over again until he falls asleep.
And I know tomorrow, when he wakes up, he’ll forget all about the sorrow he experienced the night before.
I quietly exit the room and remove my phone from my pocket. I open the monitor app and set the notifications so I’ll be alerted if he leaves his room... just in case.
And then I lean against the wall and catch my breath as my racing heart seems to take up all the space in my chest.