Twenty
Saint
When Evaline asks me to go with her to the cafeteria, I don’t mind.
Winter might be able to fool other people, but I know she’s taking her dad’s accident harder than she’s letting on.
I think her prolonged absence from home is making her feel guilty, knowing that she could have lost her dad, and she has barely had time with him in the last several years.
She shouldn’t feel bad for doing her own thing, but her family and friends have missed her. Her job was the excuse to stay away, but if she were honest, I think she could do work from here if she wanted to.
Evaline stops examining the map of the hospital so we can find our way to the cafeteria. Once she has the route figured out, we use the elevator to get to the ground floor.
“Thank you for taking the boys home last night with you and Winter,” she says.
“It wasn’t a problem. We were going there anyway, and besides, I’m always happy to help.”
She studies me from the corner of her eye for a minute.
“When Winter first got home, I thought you two would resume your typical behaviors toward each other. But it seems like you and Winter have been getting along better recently.”
I murmur an agreement with her, but I’m not sure how, or even if I want to, explain what’s happening between Winter and me.
I don’t know if she would be supportive if she found out about my feelings for Winter.
The past reputation for fighting feels like a weight dragging me down when I think of how people might react.
Will they believe attempting a relationship will fail because of our youthful immaturity from years past?
Deciding that I’m not ready for an interrogation from her, I change the subject.
“So, I’m glad we have a second alone. There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
She looks at me full of hope, which seems to disappear when she realizes I wasn’t going to continue the discussion about Winter and me.
“Mr. Evergreen’s recovery is going to take a while,” I start, but she interrupts me.
“You know he doesn’t like you calling him that. If he heard you just now, he’d insist you call him Gene.”
She’s right, so I give her a small smile before I continue, “Gene is going to have a long recovery. I imagine he’ll use a wheelchair for at least a little while.
Even if he doesn’t, he’ll still have a difficult time getting up the stairs at the house.
I was researching online plans to build a ramp.
I think it’s something the boys and I can get done in a few hours if we work on it together.
I want your permission to add the ramp to the porch. ”
She thinks for a few minutes before wiping what must be a tear off one cheek and then the other.
“That would be lovely, Saint. That’s such a thoughtful idea.” She beams.
“I know Gene would never ask for such a thing, and he would vehemently decline if he knew what we were planning. I figured if you and I discussed it, it could be ready before he comes home, and he’ll have no chance to fight us about it.”
“You’re right. That man is as stubborn as they come—I think that’s where Winter got her stubborn streak from.”
We both chuckle. I’m pretty sure she’s right about that. Evaline is the kindest soul I’ve ever known, and while that doesn’t make her a pushover, she makes fewer demands than the rest of the family when they don’t get their way.
“When you get an estimate on how much money you’ll need in supplies, let me know. I’ll get some cash out from the bank,” she offers.
I wave away her offer of money. “It’s taken care of.”
She’s persistent, wanting to pay for it, but she finally relents when I tell her, “Let me handle this. You all have a lot on your plates already. You’ve welcomed me into your home and allowed me to stay there while my place is being fixed up, asking for nothing in return for your kindness. It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh, fine, you stubborn boy.” She huffs in displeasure. The teasing is fleeting before a gleam of sadness enters her eyes. “Joy would be so proud of the man you’ve turned into.” She smiles, but it’s watery.
The pang of grief twangs my heart. I miss my mother so much. As far as blood family goes, she’s the only blood family I’ve ever had. I imagine even if I had a massive family, the pain would still cut the same.
“I think you’re right,” I reply.
Evaline steps forward and wraps me in a comforting hug. It’s as close as I can get to maternal affection now, and I’m grateful to her for being here for me.
While we continue our path to the cafeteria, I pull out my phone and text Cypress.
Me: I need a favor.
Knowing we went to the hospital, he texts me back quickly, probably because he’s worried about his dad.
Cypress E.: What?
Me: I need you to measure the front porch.
Cypress E.: What? Why?
Me: We’re going to build a ramp for your dad to use when he gets home. I need the porch dimensions STAT.
Cypress E.: thumbs-up emoji
I slide my phone back into my pocket just as we reach the cafeteria. For a small-town hospital, the place is bustling with activity. Many of the tables we pass are mostly full, making me thankful we’re taking the food back to Gene’s room.
We peruse the limited dessert choices. The cookies available are raisin-flavored and look almost inedible. The pudding is past its date. But chocolate cake is abundant, so we decide that it seems safe.
After paying for our cakes, we grab plastic sporks and make the long trek back to the room. I’m mostly silent as I think about the layout for the ramp, which direction I want it to go, and other specifics. Evaline seems lost in her own thoughts as well.
Back in the room, we distribute the contraband. The cake is a bit dry and is definitely not as good as the one from the local bakery. However, Gene seems thrilled to have it.
We eat and talk for thirty minutes or so before the male nurse we saw earlier walks in carrying some supplies.
“All right, Mr. Evergreen, I’m going to be giving you the next dose of your pain medications,” he states as he places his supplies on the table to the side of the bed.
While he sanitizes his hands, I take Gene’s empty plate to the trash can and tidy up our mess.
“Take a look at this chart for me, Mr. Evergreen. Based on these faces, what is your current pain level?”
Gene murmurs an answer, but it’s too low for me to hear from across the room. I imagine his quietness is intentional. Not wanting his wife or daughter to worry about him and his pain.
The nurse jots down something in the logbook that hangs from the end of the bed rail before tucking it back into the holder.
He starts talking to Gene about the medication and what he’s doing. We all wait quietly while he finishes up.
It isn’t long before Gene’s eyelids droop.
“I think I’m going to get a little rest,” he says through the yawn he attempts to stifle.
Winter whispers to me, “Let’s say our goodbyes and let him nap.”
We exchange hugs before heading out.
As we drive away from the hospital, Winter eyes me with concern.
“Where are we going? The house is in the other direction,” she points out.
“We have an errand to run on our way.”
She doesn’t ask for specifics or demand answers. It’s so unlike her to go with the flow, at least where I’m concerned. The visit with her dad seems to have subdued her.
To distract her, I hand her my phone.
“Pick out something to listen to on the drive,” I instruct.
“You didn’t unlock it,” she grumbles.
I tell her the code, which seems to shock her.
Not the code itself. I can tell that the set of numbers means nothing to her.
It’s the fact that I gave her the code to my phone.
I haven’t updated my password in years. Not since she left.
The day she moved to New York without saying goodbye felt monumental.
The passcode to my phone is the month and day she left.
The only secrets between us are the ones she’s not ready for—my love for her, the level of devotion I would show her, and my dedication. Eventually, she’ll know them, at least if I have anything to say about it.
She scrolls through my playlists, scrutinizing my music. Teasing me over bands I have added to my favorites. Finally, she settles on something that she says is not “completely repulsive.”
As she’s about to set my phone back down in the cupholder, it buzzes.
“Oh, you just got a text from my brother,” she says.
“What’d he say?”
“It’s a bunch of numbers,” she replies in confusion. “I’m not really sure what I’m looking at.”
“Oh, good. That’ll be helpful on our errand.”
“What are the numbers for?” she asks.
“They’re the dimensions for the porch at your parents’ house.”
The rest of the ride to the hardware store, I explain my plans, and surprisingly, she’s on board with the idea.