Chapter 7
Brandon
Bert Griswold’s house is a dusty-blue ranch-style home that has clearly seen better days.
A winding wooden wheelchair ramp leads up to his front porch, but it’s currently frozen over like an ice rink.
I wobble like Bambie as I navigate the death trap, making a mental note to come back and lay down some salt before someone breaks their neck doing a welfare check on the poor old man.
Thankfully, I make it to the door in one piece. Balancing a set of plastic food containers on my open palm, I ring the doorbell, then step back and wait. No one answers, so I approach the window and tap the glass. “Bert? My name is Brandon Wright. I live a few blocks over. Evie Montgomery sent me.”
A tired, gravelly voice emanates from a camera next to the door. “The key’s in the flower pot.”
I let myself in and am stunned by the stench that greets me. No wonder Evie was so concerned about Bert. His place smells like expired beer and urine. The last time I was here, his place was immaculate.
I approach the bed in the center of his living room.
“Here are those leftovers Evie promised,” I say, setting the containers on the end table.
He eyes me warily. “Evie was in a car accident last night,” I explain.
His face turns sheet-white. “Don’t worry.
She’s doing fine. She would have called last night, but she only just got her phone back from the towing company. ”
“Oh, dear. Poor Evie.”
Poor Evie indeed.
I’m caught off guard by the sudden glare that darkens his features. “You said your name was Brandon, didn’t you, son?” he asks, scrutinizing me.
I nod, wondering if he remembers me.
He grunts once, still scowling at me. “Thought I recognized you.”
Huh. He was perfectly friendly with me the first time we met. Perhaps he isn’t feeling well. Or maybe spending the holiday alone has left him feeling blue.
I sit down on the couch, hoping to strike up a conversation. “So—”
“You can leave now.”
Stunned, I simply stare at him.
“I’m not interested in small talk. So, unless you have any other updates on Evie, I think we’re done here.”
I’m so taken aback by his hostility that I almost laugh. More out of shock than anything else. “Well, minus a few bumps and bruises, I’m sure she’ll be just fine. Granted, she’s a little sore, but . . .” My mind drifts back to her imaging results.
I’ve spotted a small gap in your spine right where it meets your pelvis.
Evie isn’t dealing with the news very well.
She refused to talk to me about it, both in the hospital and on the drive home.
While that was frustrating, it was also unsurprising.
I know she needs time to process this information before deciding what she wants to do about it—if she decides to do anything at all.
And she might not. Evie was a sickly child, and she spent a lot of time in and out of hospitals as a kid.
She even spent some time in a children’s psychiatric hospital as a teenager.
She doesn’t like hospitals or doctors and avoids them where possible.
Bert continues to glare at me like I have personally offended him somehow.
It doesn’t bother me, but it does confound me.
I deal with misplaced hostility all the time as a physician, but it has never felt personal.
But judging by the way Bert is glowering at me right now, you’d think I stomped on his sand castle or kicked his dog.
“I’m sure she’ll be back on her feet in no time,” I conclude.
The marionette lines on his chin deepen. “Still. This won’t be good for her back.”
Even Bert is aware of the pain she’s been in. I pray to God she hasn’t been hauling him around. He looks like he weighs at least three hundred pounds.
“She’ll be taking some time off work, I’m sure.”
“So, are you her boyfriend now or something?” he spits, giving me a disdainful once-over. My head tilts as I gaze at him. Is that what this is? Jealousy? Does he have some sort of inappropriate romantic attachment to Evie?
“No . . . but we’re close.” Or used to be, anyway.
“Good.” He crosses his arms. “She deserves better.”
I blink. “Come again?”
“You heard me,” he gripes, glancing at the leftover containers. “Thanks for the food.”
It’s clear I’m being dismissed, so I rise and glance around the room. Lord, show me how You would respond. Warmth floods my chest, and the inclination to extend Bert undeserved kindness eclipses my indignation. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
He extends his water pitcher. “Fill this up. And grab me a cheese stick while you’re in there.”
Biting my tongue, I take the pitcher from him and head to the kitchen. I wonder if this is what Evie deals with, or if Bert’s a peach with her.
Evie isn’t a pushover, so something tells me it’s the latter.
***
After I leave Bert’s, I head back to Maggie’s place.
I should go home and go back to bed; I only got a few hours of sleep last night.
Plus, Evie needs her rest. The last thing she needs is me loitering around, spiking her blood pressure.
But here I am again, unable to resist the strength of her gravitational pull.
Maggie answers the door with a knowing look on her face. “Brandon,” she greets, stepping aside. “I thought you’d be back. I just put some coffee on.”
Maggie and I have breakfast together regularly, so we fall into companionable silence while she pours the coffee. My instinct is to offer her a hand, but Maggie and Evie are one and the same. Independent to a fault.
I have to pick my battles with the Montgomery women.
Maggie sets the coffee on the table, then carefully lowers herself into the seat across from me. “You’re like a boomerang, Mr. Wright.”
I pick up my mug and blow on it. “Oh?”
“No matter how far Evie throws you, you always circle right on back.” Taken off guard, I gaze into my mug, avoiding her eyes. “Can’t say that I blame you . . . or Adam, for that matter. She’s a catch.”
“Adam?” Adam has been Evie’s ex for a long time now.
Her brows rise. “I thought it was obvious he’s still as smitten as the day they almost got married.” She tusks and blows on her coffee. “Poor fool.”
The image of Evie in her wedding gown, hightailing it out of the church—because of me—consumes me with self-loathing. “How do you know?” I press, dropping the mug I’m lifting to my mouth back onto the table.
Maggie grins deviously, baring her false teeth like a Cheshire cat. “Don’t worry,” she says, gazing through me. “Your little crush is safe with me.”
I almost laugh. Crush. Oh, Maggie. If only you knew . . .
Her eyes shift left then right. “Between you and me, I’m Team Brandon.”
I clear my throat. “Speaking of Evie—how is she?”
She hesitates. “Oh, you know. She’s . . . Evie.”
“What do you mean?” That could mean many things. Evie is the most complicated woman I have ever met. Nothing is ever easy or straightforward with her, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that.
“She’s downstairs.”
I glance toward the hall. “Isn’t her bedroom up here?”
Maggie releases a drawn-out sigh and sits back. “She’s doing the laundry.”
I’m slow to comprehend. “She’s . . . what?”
Maggie purses her lips. “I insisted she rest, but she wanted to keep caught up on her chores.”
I’m out of my seat and halfway down the hall before she’s done speaking. I hustle down the steps to the basement. I know I’ve crossed a line, and I’ll have to apologize to Maggie about it later, but, admittedly, I’m furious. Evie doesn’t know when to slow down, and it’s hurting her.
My vision tunnels as I close in on the laundry room at the end of the hall.
Throwing the door open, I brace myself for a fight because Evie is as stubborn as an old mule—but stop short at what I find on the other side.
Evie, crumpled on the floor, her head cradled between her knees. Her back heaving.
My blood runs cold.
She hasn’t heard me over the whirring of the washing machine. I approach her slowly, touch her shoulder gently. She startles and winces, her eyes widening when she discovers me looming over her. I expect her to withdraw from me, to tell me to get lost and demand I leave her alone once and for all.
But she reaches for me.
“Brandon,” she breathes, lifting shaking arms. “Thank God you’re here. I’m in so much pain. Please. Help.”
Like Maggie, Evie isn’t one to ask for help.
My heart breaks at the pleading look on her face. Sinking to my knees, I take her outstretched hands in mine. “Why do you do this to yourself?” I ask. She looks down, shaking her head. Taking her chin in my hand, I force her to meet my gaze. “When will you learn to take better care of yourself?”
She tugs her face free, looking irritated now. “Just get me back upstairs, Brandon. Please.”
Sighing, I carefully lift her into my arms. She’s much lighter than I expected her to be. She winces and moans. “I’m sorry,” I murmur against her cheek, cradling her closer. “I’ve got you. Hang on.”
She rests her head against my shoulder, and my heart melts within me. “Thank you.” There are no tears running down her cheeks, but her voice is thick like she’s been crying.
Come to think of it, I have never seen Evie shed a tear.
But I’ve seen her fake a smile. Laugh off a broken heart.
Maggie meets us at the top of the stairs. “Evie,” she gasps. “Honey, are you alright?”
Evie cringes. “Mostly.”
“No, she’s not alright.” Maggie gapes guiltily, clutching her face like that Scream painting as she shakes her head.
“So, I’m pulling the doctor card, Maggie.
” Evie wiggles in my arms like a contained puppy as I carry her down the hall.
“She is on strict bed rest for at least a week. No work. No chores. No getting out of bed except to use the restroom or take a bath.”
Evie’s fingernails dig into my shirt collar as I carry her into her bedroom. “You can’t do that. You can’t just—”