Chapter 59
RIGGS
Over the next few days, Gemma and I fall into a routine.
We wake up early and lay in my bed, watching the sunrise through the wall of windows that face the river before we get up and start prepping breakfast. While she’s mixing her dough or batter for the day, I make coffee and give our feline overlord (that’s what Gem calls her) her first of several daily Churus. Somewhere in there, Colt shows up.
After the coffee is finished brewing, I take a cup out onto the deck so she and Colt can talk.
I’m still jealous of him. I’m probably always going to be jealous of him.
That’s not something I can fix. He’s had years of Gemma.
Years I spent running away from her. Years I can never get back.
But as jealous as I am, I recognize I have no one to blame but myself.
I also recognize that, as much as it pains me to say, Colt Montgomery is no push-over.
If he wanted Gemma, he’d have made his intentions known long before now.
After Colt leaves, usually with a quick later Riggs shouted through the sunroom door, I come back inside and we have breakfast. After that, we spend the day doing nothing.
I sit on the deck and watch her dig in her garden or hang a load of towels out on the clothesline while her cat stalks poor defenseless creatures through the grass and conspires to leave them in my shoes.
Gemma usually wanders down to the river while Bruce puts me through my paces and doesn’t come back until it’s nearly time for him to leave.
She walks him to the door, usually with pastries, kisses his cheek and says see you tomorrow, Brucie.
After that, it’s dinner—last night I grilled steaks and Gem made a salad—on the deck.
Afterward, she ends up at the kitchen table, hunched over her notebook, making a baking plan for Scarlett Montgomery’s birthday cake.
Even though I’m not convinced that’s what she’s actually doing, I leave her to it while I load the dishwasher.
After I’m done, I take her notebook, set it aside and tell her that’s enough work for the day.
We spend the rest of the evening in bed.
Talking and laughing. Kissing and touching until we’re locking the cat out and we wind up naked.
It’s been the most perfect three days of my life.
Which is why, when Bruce tells me something he shouldn’t after our PT session, I’m not surprised.
Instead of puttering in her garden or sitting on her rock by the river, Gemma’s been in the kitchen all day.
It’s Friday, which means she has to deliver Scarlett Montgomery’s birthday cake tomorrow.
Deciding to leave her to it, I walk Bruce to the door myself.
Before I can get him through it, he stops in the doorway with a frown.
“Look, you didn’t hear it from me,” he says flicking a quick look past me, into the house, before he sighs. “But you’re CO called my boss. He’s going to be here for your Monday session. He wants to observe your progress.”
I asked the US Marine Corp for six months and they gave me three—that sounds about right.
That means no matter what happens next—whether I decide to sign my medical discharge paperwork or accept a desk assignment and stay in the Corp—Gemma’s time as my paid caregiver is over.
“Thanks for letting me know, man.” Giving him a flat smile, I bob my head. “I guess this is it, then.”
“I’ll be here for the dog and pony show, but after that… yeah.” Bruce gives me a healthy dose of side-eye. “You decide what you’re gonna do?”
I’m not stupid. I know what he’s asking me. He’d have to be blind not to see that things have changed between Gemma and me.
“Yeah.” I bob my head. “It’s been decided for a while now.”
Rather than ask me what I decided exactly, Bruce gives me a look like he already knows. Turning away from me, he leaves without saying goodbye.
After walking Bruce to the door, I make my way to the kitchen to find Gemma exactly where I left her.
“Bruce said he’ll see you Monday,” I tell her on my way to the fridge.
When she hears me, Gemma’s head pops up and she blinks at me like she doesn’t know where she is. “He left?” Looking at her phone, she frowns. “It’s after four?”
“It’s after four,” I confirm with a laugh.
Opening the fridge, I brace my hand on the door for leverage to hold myself up while I bend down to retrieve a bottle of water.
Everything she needs to make Scarlett’s cake is prepped and ready to go.
Cakes and cupcakes are baked and wrapped in plastic wrap.
Frostings and fillings are prepared and stored in containers.
There isn’t much of anything else in the fridge besides the days-old to-go container from June's, a pitcher of lemonade that I’m pretty sure has been in here since I got here, and condiments.
Grabbing a water bottle I straighten myself and close the fridge.
“Have you eaten anything today besides cake scraps or three-day-old potpie?”
“Mmm…” Distracted again, she frowns at her notebook. “I ate a turkey sandwich, I think.”
“That was yesterday,” I tell her, taking a few careful steps between the refrigerator and the kitchen table. I’m working on my balance. Crossing small distances without my walker. Making it to the table, I sigh down at her. “I know because I made it for you.”
“I’ll eat at work,” she says, picking up her pen to write something down.
Even though I don’t actually believe her, I don’t argue.
Sitting in the chair cattycorner to hers, I watch her for a few moments before I say anything.
I have to tell her what Bruce let me know about my CO coming for a surprise check-in on Monday.
I know I have to tell her, no matter how much I don’t want to. “Gem?—”
“Do you have a credit card?” Her head comes up when she asks, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“I’m not asking you for money. I have money but I don’t have a credit card.
Penny paid me to make Scarlett’s birthday cake.
I spent some of it on supplies to actually make the cake, but there’s a lot left and?—”
“What do you need a credit card for?” I ask, trying my best to reroute her tangent.
When I ask, her mouth tightens and her shoulders get stiff—both classic signs that Gemma’s stubborn streak is about to strike.
She’s going to tell me never mind. That she’ll figure it out on her own.
Before she can, I sigh. “I want to help you and the fact that you even asked is…” Shaking my head, I look away while I try to work it out in my head, so I can say what I need to without digging myself a hole.
After a few moments, I clear my throat and look at her again.
“I have a credit card. I have a few of them. I also have a debit card and some cash if you need it. Whatever you need from me, it’s yours—I don’t really care what it’s for.
I’m only asking because you’ve obviously been planning something for days now and you mentioned you had an idea on how you can make the money to save this place and whatever that plan is, I want to be a part of it. ”
For a few moments, Gemma just stares at me. I can see it—the distrust. The uncertainty. I’m not reliable. I’ve never been reliable. I leave. I always leave. And when I leave I don’t come back. Before I can tell her never mind, that I get why she doesn’t want to tell me, she speaks up.
“I want to open a microbakery,” she says quietly, watching me carefully like she expects me to start laughing.
“I don’t know what that is,” I say, feeling like I just climbed the stairs, ran six miles on the treadmill, and managed to shower and dress myself without having to sit down. “But if you need my help to do it, then you’ll get it.”
“It’s not nearly as impressive as it sounds,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Penny Montgomery actually gave me the idea last week. Did you know people will pay eight dollars for a single scone?”
“I had no idea,” I tell her, my chest feeling like it wants to burst open because she’s talking to me. Trusting me. Asking me for help.
“It would just be something small to start out with. A table set up on the front porch with a few baked good for sale—I was thinking Sunday morning. People will be driving by, headed to church or coming back. I could put a sign in the yard or maybe post something on the neighborhood Facebook page.” She gives me a shrug.
“Anyway, I need a credit card to order packaging supplies online… it’s probably not going to work but I have to try?—”
“I already told you, Gem,” I say, cutting her off with a head shake. “It’s going to work.”
“I’m not asking you to pay for anything,” she needlessly reassures me because even if she’s asking for my help, she still can’t allow herself to rely on my completely.
“I have it all worked out, I have enough cash to pay for everything. I’ll give you the money, I just…
” Her brow collapses into a frown. “Waitressing, most of my income is cash. Whatever actual paychecks I do get are eaten up by taxes. I don’t even have a bank account.
” Brow lifting, she rolls her eyes. “I’m probably the only person in Texas who still uses money orders to pay her bills. ”
“I’ve got you, Gem.” Leaning across the table, I press as soft, lingering kiss to her mouth. “Whatever you need, I got you.”
“I’ll pay you back,” she insists, her eyes shiny with tears, telling me just how much it cost her to ask. How hard it is for her to rely on me, even just a little bit.
“Okay.” I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to.
That I’d sell a kidney if she needed it, but I don’t.
I also need to tell her what Bruce told me at the door.
That my CO will be here Monday and that means the VA is going to cut her off, but I can’t.
Not right now. Leaving it for tomorrow, I sit back in my seat.
“You should probably go get ready for work. Cade’ll be here soon. ”
“Right.” Shooting up from her chair, she closes her notebook. Stalling for a moment she gives me a pained smile. “Thanks, Riggs.”
Even though hearing her thank me makes me want to scream, I smile. “You’re welcome.”