Page 91 of I'm Your Guy
“You know I do.”
“They suspect anemia, which means…”
“An iron deficiency, right?”
“Right. And her blood-cell count isn’t even that terrible. She’s getting medication. She slept comfortably, and they’ll release her later today.”
I let out a giant breath. “Okay. So a manageable problem.”
“Very manageable,” she says gently. “And not uncommon for chemo patients. You can stop panicking for now. Mom is still coming out there for Christmas.”
“Are you sure?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Tommy, a meteor could wipe us off the planet by cocktail hour. Nothing is ever for sure.”
“I know that,” I grumble. “I just wondered if it was safe for her to come here.”
“She thinks so,” Gia says. “And it’s her life. Besides—if anything happened, you have hospitals in Boulder, too.”
That’s true, but it isn’t exactly comforting. “I just wouldn’t want her to exhaust herself on my account.”
“She’s really looking forward to the trip,” Gia says softly. “It’s all she talks about.”
I swallow a big lump in my throat. “So am I. The house is ready. We just did the tree last night.”
“We?” Gia asks with about as much subtlety as a brick through a window. “Who’s we?”
“A friend and I.”
“Oh! Is this your designer friend?”
She and my mother have obviously been talking about me. “That’s the guy. He’s, uh, good at stuff like that.” And other things.
It’s a good thing Gia is a thousand miles away and can’t see my ears turn red.
“Here comes the nurse,” my sister says. “Mom wants some tea, so I gotta flag her down. Call you after she’s discharged?”
“Yeah, let me know what else you learn.”
“Will do!”
I sag against the pillow, taking a moment to absorb the news. I panicked last night, my mind traveling from zero to calamity in just a few seconds.
But that’s how this year has gone. My mother’s illness blindsided me. I’d been here in Colorado for two seasons, focusing on hockey and feeling grateful that I still had a career. I was so happy to get away from New Jersey and the shame of my failed marriage. I didn’t spare a lot of thought for my family.
Maybe it makes me a self-centered jerk, but when my mother got her diagnosis, I took it personally. Like the universe was telling me that I don’t deserve to start over or set aside my past mistakes.
I take another deep breath and let it out for a count of four. Then I set my phone down on the nightstand. It’s oak—the same wood as the bed—and it appeared here in the last few days. Like magic.
Carter is the magic. He showed up out of nowhere and handled every detail I’d asked of him. And he did it with style and humor.
And then last night…
A slow smile spreads across my face. My life might be ninety percent disastrous right now. But that other ten percent is pretty amazing.
THIRTY-TWO
Carter
