Chapter Nineteen #4
With as much nonchalance as he could muster – and it wasn’t much considering the upper half of his body had no circulatory capability including his brain – he lifted both shoulders and said, “Beats me.”
With her chin cocked and the smile that made his knees collapse in place, she told him, “Keep tellin’ yourself that, darlin’,” in a tone that convinced him she had his number and wasn’t afraid to call him on it.
He shook his head, not wanting to be charmed, but nonetheless, being so.
“You don’t want a special someone?” she persisted. “A wife? Kids? A family life?”
How could he tell her his fears without sounding like an idiot? How could he voice the thoughts that had plagued him since he’d become an adult and had educated himself about his mother’s disease and what it meant for him?
“It’s just not something I ever felt I could have,” he said, hating how depressing he sounded.
“Why ever not?”
His eyebrows shifted upward. He really didn’t want to talk about this, about his worries and fears. Not with Charity. In truth, not with anyone.
For a brief moment he’d forgotten how dogged she was.
“Is it because of your mama’s condition?”
Or how insightful.
When he didn’t answer she filled in the blanks.
“Are you worried it’s something that gets passed down in the genes? Or is it that you don’t think a woman would want a life with you if she knew about your mama?”
And how she could always put the most complex of thoughts into a simple explanation of facts.
Charity Quinlan, he thought for the thousandth time, was an amazingly astute woman. And because she was, he felt compelled to give her his truth.
He swallowed, then cleared his throat. “Both, actually,” he said.
“Oh, Kolby.” She moved to stretch a hand to him and threaded her fingers into his. Warmth seeped into him from her touch. The expression on her face, though, prickled.
“Don’t pity me, Charity. It’s a decision I’ve spent a lifetime thinking about and I don’t need anyone’s pity or second guessing.”
“Pity’s the last thing I’m feelin’ f’you, O’Brian.”
Whenever she called him by his last name and filled her voice with her Southern roots, he knew to expect a speech-slap upside his head.
She didn’t disappoint.
“What I am feelin’ is the polar opposite. I’m about as angry at you as a nest of hornets who just got sprayed with bug repellent.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
With a shake of his head like a dog shucking rainwater off his coat, he said, “The wacky analogy aside, why are you mad at me for what I believe?”
“First of all,” she took her hand from his and ticked off her index finger, “while some mental illnesses are carried through family lines, not all of them are. If I’m rememberin’ right, schizophrenia is one of them and your mama isn’t a schizophrenic.
She’s bipolar and I think that can have a genetic component, but it’s small compared to other disorders. ”
“How—”
“Two. Even if you did carry a gene, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’d develop the condition. That much I know is correct.”
He tried to interrupt again but she barreled right over him.
“Three,” another finger ticked. “Any woman who professes to love you and want to spend a lifetime with you should accept your mama just the way she is. When you marry, you’re not just getting the person standin’ at the altar speakin' the vows with you. You’re marryin’ the whole family sittin’ in the front pews dressed in their good, Sunday best clothes.
Kith, kin, cat and caboodle, crazy aunties and opinionated, outspoken grannys.
Anyone, man or woman, who don’t get that ain’t worth marrying. Got it?”
All he could do was nod.
“And fourth, ‘cuz I know this is probably rollin’ around in that thick brain o’yors as well, kids shouldn’t be off the table because you’re worried about what you could maybe pass on to them.
I’ve told you about the mental issues in some of my kin, and even with ’em, the couples have had healthy, happy, understanding and empathetic kids.
” The stress on the last two words was purely for his benefit, he knew, because she wanted to underscore the point.
“And last, because I’ve already made my point,” she said, nodding, “if you’re thinkin’ you don’t deserve to be loved for who and what you are because o’yor mama’s condition, you hear me and let it sink into that thick head of yours when I say that’s just some simple horseshit.”
He’d only ever heard her curse one time before – that fateful morning when she’d woken and found him in her bed. To hear a word like that come from her mouth was shocking. But, he countered, wickedly alluring too, because her speech was passion-filled, heartfelt, and aimed straight at him.
The tickling sensation of his phone buzzing in his back pocket halted the reply he wanted to make.
“It’s the hospital,” he said, connecting the call. Charity nodded and moved to busy herself with putting the rest of the roast away.
When his breath crawled from behind his lips a few minutes later, she asked, “Update?”
“Yeah. They usually call when she’s had her meds and is winding down. The aide is there and, hopefully, she’ll have a good night.”
Charity folded her hands together in front of her and nodded, saying, “Hopefully, you will too.”
“Um, about what you were saying before that call?”
She waved a hand in the air. “I said my piece, gave you my opinion. Take it or leave it, 'cuz I’m done.”
“I wanted to ask how you know so much about the genetic links to mental illness.”
Her mouth twisted as she bit down on the inside of her cheek. “First, from having family afflicted.”
“The stories you told me,” he said with a nod.
“Yeah. And while you were at the hospital today, I did a Google search. Read a few articles about your mama’s condition.”
“Why?”
“What d’ya mean, why? To understand what you’re going through and see how I could help.”
She said it as if it should be obvious to him, but in actuality, he was floored.
“You, you read up on it?”
“Yup and there’s a lot to read, too. Bottom line is your mama’s not the first person to suffer with the disorder, and won’t be the last, but the treatment and meds she’s getting are sound and usually work to keep the condition in check.”
Floored may be too tame a word to describe how he felt. She’d gone out of her way to come to his aid – twice now -when he needed assistance and was too proud to ask for it. She’d armed herself with information so she could help him through the situation.
No one, not even his grandmother when she’d been alive, had ever done something like that for him.
No one but Charity.
A quick check of her iWatch while his mind was occupied, and she added, “Since everything is okay with your mama and I’ve made sure you ate real food for the first time in days,” she lifted an eyebrow at that, “whyn’t you head up to bed?
I mean, I know it’s early and you’re a grown man, but you haven’t been sleepin’ and now is the perfect time to catch up on what you’ve missed. ”
“Do we ever really catch up on what we lose?” he asked, threading his fingers into the sides of his hair and then cupping them at his neck.
“Maybe not all of it, but a good sleep is something you need and deserve, Kolby. Just shut off for the night.”
“I need to do some laundry first. I shot out of the house so fast on Sunday I only packed enough for two days.”
“Already done. I put the clean stuff on top of your dresser next to the books. Should’a known you were a book cowboy fan seeing as you love that god-awful country music so much.”
Before he could think about her doing his laundry and how intimate something like that was, a question popped into his head he gave full voice to. “How does someone who was raised in the South have such an aversion to country?”
“Familiarity breeds contempt,” she told him without batting an eye.
“It’s all my family ever listened to when I was growing up and still does to this day.
After a lifetime hearing about bar fights, lonesome prairies, and a love of trucks, guns, horses, and Daisy Dukes, it gets a little repetitive and a whole lot o’tirin’. ”
In one short sentence she’d summed up everything he loved about the music genre while at the same time decrying her disdain for it.
That took talent. Real talent.
A deep belly laugh bubbled up and he let it go without any constraints or worries.
Jesus.
It felt good to laugh. To feel something other than the dark, morose sadness that had been circling his soul for the past two weeks.
Charity fought valiantly to keep her own laughter contained, her chin dropping and her lips twisting in the struggle. But she succumbed to his own raucous laugh and let hers loose.
He couldn’t picture what the two of them must look like, standing at opposite ends of the kitchen, both laughing like idiots.
Their gazes locked when they finally calmed, smiles broadly on display. Charity shook her head.
“That felt good,” he said, leaning back against the counter edge. “I needed a laugh after, well.” He waved a hand in the air.
Her mouth, which he’d been dying to kiss for days, curled at the corners. “One of my Granny Quinlan’s favorite sayings is laughter is the best medicine. She likes people to think she coined the phrase, but everyone knows she stole it from the Reader’s Digest.”
He laughed again.
Charity exhaled then said, “Okay. Enough foolin’ around. I’m gonna head up to bed myself, maybe get a few things ready for tomorrow. I’ve got a bunch of calls to make and things to nail down for the wedding on Saturday. And you,” she pointed her index finger at him, “need some sleep.”
He couldn’t argue with her because she was right. His body had been flying on adrenaline and worry for the past three days and he needed to crash and recharge before he burned out.
He followed her up the staircase not even one bit disgusted with himself for watching the way her hips sashayed on the risers. At the top, they stopped and turned to face one another.