17. Leo （Last Year） #3
“Well,” Ruby said, wiping a glass clean, “she knows you care, and she knows I care. Everyone in Autumn Ridge is worried about Dale. But we both know Lynne’s a stoic, too.
She’s been putting on that brave face ever since her mom disappeared and left the two of them alone.
She had to grow up way too fast. I just worry what’ll happen if Dale’s health continues to decline.
It’s like watching a dam about to burst. And if it does, will she even admit how she feels?
Or will she just bury herself in more work—you know? ”
The thought of it made Leo’s core seize in a tight, brutal knot. “Let me know if anything changes, will you, Ruby? If she says she needs anything?”
Ruby nodded. “Of course, kid. Look, have a better night, okay? I didn’t mean to make you worry more.”
“Right,” he said. But he left the bar with a feeling he couldn’t shake for days.
Lynne stopped showing up to book club in December. When the members asked, he didn’t know what to tell them.
Then on Christmas Eve, Lynne sent a text that her dad had been admitted to hospice. Leo’s heart sank. He remembered it was her birthday, too.
I can bring meals or help out at the bar if you need. Just say the word, he texted back.
Thank you. I’m just … exhausted, she replied. Then a few moments later: Hospice said it could be days, maybe weeks. I’m staying with him tonight.
Ok. I’m so sorry, Lynne. I’m here. Even if you just need someone to sit with you.
She didn’t reply, but he knew she’d seen his message, knew it was genuine.
After two days passed, he reached out again: Thinking of you this morning. The silence stung, but he knew where she was right now. It was obvious why she wasn’t replying.
The holidays and the rest of the year passed without a word.
Then one random night, while he was alone at his apartment, up late with a pizza and the television, Leo heard a knock at his door. Fred ran into the bathroom to hide. Leo turned off the television, when the knock sounded again.
It hit him like a blow beneath his ribs. He ran to the door and opened it to find Lynne standing there, arms crossed, her chin quivering.
“I can’t—I can’t go—I—,” she tried to say. But she couldn’t get the words out.
He pulled her into his apartment and closed the door behind them.
She cracked open the minute his arms wrapped around her.
Soft, muffled sobs at first, then loud, full-bodied wails that threatened to break him, too.
He held her as she shook, her fists in his shirt, until her knees buckled, and they slid down to the floor together.
She curled into his lap and he cradled her, as if the room were collapsing around them.
He stayed steady, bracing them both against each wave of grief as it crashed through her body.
When she finally exhausted herself and grew quiet, he still held her, rocking her in his arms, stroking her hair, murmuring “I’m here. I’m here.” She fell asleep like that. He carried her to his bed, tucked a blanket around her, and lay beside her until dawn. He didn’t sleep. He just kept watch.
When she woke early the next morning, he was at the foot of the bed, drinking coffee, another mug waiting in his hand if she wanted it. She sipped slowly and finally said, “I’m sorry for showing up like this. Unannounced.”
He only shook his head. “You needed someone, Lynne. I’m just honored it was me.”
She cried again—smaller this time—and he held her, brushing her hair between his fingers until her breathing steadied.
She looked up at him and whispered, “Walk me home?”
He nodded and grabbed his coat.
The January air that morning was cold enough to sting, but he barely felt it.
All he felt was her hand in his—small and trembling, holding on to him like a lifeline.
Her fingers were threaded with his, tighter than he expected.
Tighter than he probably deserved. Tighter than she’d held anyone in a long time, he suspected.
She didn’t say a word as they left his apartment.
He didn’t need her to. If he’d even been able to form words of his own around it, he wouldn’t, for fear of breaking this fragile moment.
And the trust. God, how she had trusted him with this.
It pressed into his ribs harder than her weight did the night before, curled against him in the dark.
He kept his thumb still against her knuckles. No caressing. No soothing. Just steady contact, because she hadn’t come for romance. She came to not feel alone.
If his hand was all she would take from him today, he’d keep offering it.
If this was the only thing she asked of him, then so be it.
He remembered her steady beside him on that first cold Halloween night.
Now it was his turn to return the favor in the too-bright morning. Funny how grief flipped everything.
They walked down the alley. The bar sign in the distance was still dark.
Everything was quiet. A small part of him ached at the thought of letting go—physically, emotionally, of all of it.
But he knew she’d drop his hand first. He knew she’d retreat to handle things alone again.
He knew this closeness today wasn’t a promise of anything tomorrow.
If she needed him again, she’d find him.
But for now? For now, their breath exhaled in clouds that merged and vanished. For now, she held his hand as if it was the only anchor in the world. And he would never forget it.