17. Chapter 17 #2
Once he got home, he showered and slipped into a pair of black boxer briefs and an old gray T-shirt, then grabbed another beer in the fridge, thoroughly buzzed and blissfully fucking happy.
He was going to be the best man at John and Wyatt’s wedding.
He’d never been in a wedding before and was honored that John had chosen him.
He suddenly wished his grandpa were here to see what his life had become.
To see how happy he was.
I miss you, Papi.
He glanced at the box of his grandpa’s things and sighed. He had finally opened it back up a few days ago, missing Papi and Frankie, and needing a distraction. The coffee table in his living room was strewn with pictures and letters, with one dog tag sitting on top. Jack Russo’s.
His last conversation with Papi came back to him as he slumped onto his couch, emotion welling inside him as he was transported back to that day.
“Stop fussin’,” Papi barked, slapping the water glass and plastic straw dangling from it away.
Sam sighed impatiently, “You need to stay hydrated.”
“The nurse does that. You don’t need to. You’re just supposed to sit here with me and keep me company while I die.”
He couldn’t help but snort with laughter and rubbed his forehead in exasperation. Papi was difficult—hell, the whole Samuels bloodline was difficult, smart-mouthed people that filtered nothing for no one. Even on their hospice bed, apparently.
“Death is a slow bitch and needs to hurry up already. I’ve got people waitin’ for me on the other side,” Papi complained, fidgeting with the edges of the quilt the priest had given to him earlier.
He shook his head, staring hollowly at the richly colored quilt patterns and at Papi’s wrinkled, aged hands, blood-bruised and paper-thin. He was so fragile and yet still feisty. “What about me?”
“What about you?”
“I—”
“Sammy…” Papi interrupted, drawling out his name the way only he could do. “We’ve had a good run. Nearly thirty years by my side. You’re the second love of my life. You know that. But I ain’t waitin’ to see my man another day.”
Emotion clogged his throat.
“You look like him.”
“Who?”
Sam knew full well he didn’t look like his mother, Millie, and he’d never actually met his biological father, so he had no idea who Papi was referring to.
“Your grandpa.”
His lips parted in shock as he stared at the man in the hospice bed, who was once so full of life and energy that he reminded Sam of a walking sparkler.
“Open that drawer, hand me the picture in there,” Papi instructed firmly.
Numbly, obediently, he did. Inside the bedside drawer was a photo of two men—one he recognized as a younger version of Papi, and the other… Sam shivered, staring at another version of himself, but from another time, another life.
Impossible.
“Your real grandfather’s name was Jack Russo. My best friend and…” Papi murmured. “Soulmate.”
Sam’s gaze swung up to him. “Why…?”
“Why didn’t I tell ya?” Papi shook his head, “I don’t know.
Maybe I liked the idea of you being mine, and Millie never said differently.
Jack had been a bit of a player before we met, and he didn’t know one of his bedmates had gotten pregnant.
Then we got drafted. We got back from the war and had a baby to take care of.
And those were the best years of my life.
” Papi’s voice trembled, emotion lining the wrinkles of his face.
“I loved being a father, and so did Jack. We made a go of it. But then Jack died in a car accident when Millie was ten, and her mother came back…” His lips furrowed disapprovingly.
“I tried my damnedest to do right by Millie, but her mom made it impossible. Threatened plenty of times to out me, ruined my reputation, my life. They eventually moved, vanished for a long time.”
“So, when Millie showed up on my doorstep with you, you were only three, all I saw was another chance at the opportunity I thought I had lost—to have a family, to be a grandpa.” His voice wavered and cracked heavily with emotion.
“The more you aged, the more I realized you were just like my Jack. And when Millie took you away from me, I thought I would never recover—that I was fated to love the ghosts of the Russo boys. By the time she came back, you were a man, and all I saw was this…”
He pointed to the picture of Jack Russo and blinked back tears.
It was a picture of them in the jungle, grainy and tattered.
Papi wore a combat vest and green helmet, a cigarette dangling from his lips, grinning, his muscular arm draped over Jack’s shoulders.
Jack wore thick, black-rimmed glasses, curly brown hair frayed beneath the helmet, his dimpled chin whiskered with stubble, and a medic's badge attached to his vest.
Sam traced his fingers over the image.
Papi wasn’t his biological grandfather.
Jack Russo was.
“But I also saw you, and a little me,” he smirked. “You were so angry—angry at her, at the world, and you needed a friend. The way I had needed Jack. So, I talked you up to Frankie. It wasn’t hard.”
Sam softened at the sound of Frankie’s name. “It never is with him.”
Papi’s eyes sparkled with tears. “I knew you were like me. I always knew. And I just wanted you to have a friend, Sam. I didn’t mean for you to fall in love—”
Sam’s whole body braced at the word "love". Hearing it felt as if his soul were suddenly stripped bare, and his jaw clenched in quick denial. “I’m not—”
In love with my best friend.
Papi’s gentle eyes seemed to understand, to know something he did not.
“I would give anything to have one more day with Jack. One more day to kiss him, to feel his hand hold mine. You deserve that, Sam. You deserve that, and the world. Someone who can love you for exactly who you are. You have to stop hiding. It’s killing you. ”
Sam’s grip tightened on his, unable to speak as sudden emotion gripped his throat. “He’s just—we’re just—”
“I know.” Papi smiled, “It’ll come. And when it does, it’ll hit you like a fuckin’ bomb, my sweet boy. I hope in that moment you can give him and yourself the dignity of the truth.”
He swallowed a lump, the building well of grief mixing with denial.
Papi’s tears broke over his cheeks. “I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you the truth about Jack. I should’ve told you—”
“All you told me was that I had two grandpas, Papi,” he replied firmly.
Papi's chest broke with a relieved sob.
“You’re my family because he was yours. You’re still my grandpa. Nothing's changed.”
Sam reached for him, embracing him. After several long moments, Papi released him and pointed to the drawer once more. “I want you to have those.”
He saw a velvet box in the back of the drawer and opened it, revealing two golden rings.
“Whoever wears those rings are Russo-Samuels. Men who were lucky enough to find their soulmates.”
His mind, or maybe it was his heart, flashed an image of a man with a broad smile, dark yet warm brown eyes, black hair, and an infectious laugh. Something in his chest warmed and settled. It felt deep and sure. So sure, it scared him.
One Month Later
Sam barely felt his legs beneath him as he sat numbly on the edge of his grandpa’s bed. It had been neatly made, probably by a hospice nurse, he thought numbly.
The sheets had been washed, the comforter cleaned.
There was no trace that his body had died here. That he had taken his last breath here, with his grandson holding his hand, wishing that love could somehow keep his heart beating just a little while longer.
Grief edged his throat as Sam shakily grasped the neck of the whiskey bottle, dragging it to his lips and taking several gulps. His nostrils flared with the burn and his eyes watered. He needed desperately to get fucked up, and fast.
The celebration of life had been incredible.
So many of Papi’s friends and loved ones had shown up to pay their respects, to share their stories, to honor his life with their best memories of him.
Sam had cried and laughed, then cried some more.
And Frankie never once left his side. He had become his pillar of strength, intent on taking care of him all day, even during the awkward moments when Sam’s emotions overwhelmed him. Frankie would step in, taking charge.
He couldn’t have gotten through the day without him.
The celebration of life was finally winding down, and people were slowly trickling out of Papi’s house.
Refusing to stick around for any more goodbyes, Sam slipped away.
Frankie had been busy with Tony and his newborn twins, giving him the opportunity to grab a bottle of Jameson from the cabinet and be alone with his broken heart.
He sighed, swallowing the lump in his throat.
Footsteps shuffled behind him, and he knew who it was by the uneven gait, noticeable only when he climbed stairs. Sam took another pull from the whiskey bottle, and Papi’s door opened. He didn’t have to turn to know it was Frankie standing in the doorway.
Without a word, his best friend sat beside him.
The late afternoon sunlight drifted through the window, illuminating Frankie.
His black suit and white shirt wasn’t as rumpled as Sam’s, and his Italian leather shoes glinted in the streaming beams of light.
Frankie mutely glanced up and down the ruined mess that Sam currently was.
He was intent on drinking as much whiskey as humanly possible.
He knew his eyes were bloodshot the last time he looked in the mirror.
He had run his hand through his hair repeatedly throughout the day, and he forgot to shave this morning, leaving his chin and cheeks whiskered and haphazard.
Frankie released a long breath but didn’t give him shit.
Not today.