Page 39 of Keeping Kaitlyn

“Sorry,” I tell him, reaching over to ruffle his ears before slapping at the bedside table for my phone. Turning it off with a sigh, I contemplate rolling over and going back to sleep.

After Went left last night, Ryan stood in his doorway just long enough to watch me unlock my door and open it before he disappeared into his apartment with a muttered,‘night. He sounded grumpy when he said it and I turned around to ask if he took the nighttime dose of medication I pour out for him daily but before I could ask, the door was shut and it was just me and Mook.

Within fifteen minutes, I was in bed but falling asleep proved nearly impossible because all I could think about was Wentand the impossible turn this mess between us has taken. That I allowed myself to be dragged into his what has firmly been established as his territory. That Tess—his ex-girlfriend of all people—is trying to hook us up. That he drove me home and asked me to have dinner with him in a few days and that I actually said yes.

I know why he did it. Not because hewantsto have dinner with me—because Ryan was watching and probably Conner too. Because it’s suddenly become impossible for us to pretend to be strangers and the other doesn’t exist.

Because the only way out is through.

You did this to yourself, Kait. You should’ve just left Boston when he asked you to.

Maybe so. Maybe I should’ve slunk off with my tail between my legs but I didn’t and it’s too late to cry about it now.

Even though I’m sure he isn’t awake and won’t answer me for hours—if ever—I text Went before I lose my nerve.

Me: We don’t have to go to dinner if you don’t want to. I understand that you only asked me because Ryan was watching.

Satisfied that the most I’ll get from Went is a thumbs up emoji, or maybe the middle finger, I dial Ryan’s number and listen to it ring. This is a part of our morning ritual. I call him every morning and ask him if he needs help out of bed and he tells me no. It’s what we do—every morning. Most of the time, he tells me to go fuck myself. Once in a blue moon, he asks me if I want to come over for a cup of coffee before Grace and the kids wake up. Either way, he always answers.

When he doesn’t answer this time, I hang up and get out of bed. Spurred by visions of him laid out in the shower or trapped in his sensory deprivation tank while Grace and the kids are still soundly asleep, I get dressed as quickly as possible while Mookie watches me from the bed because this is a part of our morningritual. I call Ryan, he tells me that he doesn’t want or need my help, and then I take him for a walk. Leaving him behind is almost never part of the plan.

“I’m going across the hall to make sure Ryan is okay and to pour his meds for the day and then I’ll be back,” I say while pulling on a pair of gray yoga pants. “We’ll go for a walk to Benny’s and grab a burrito, okay?”

Mook groans and flops back into the covers before burying his face under my pillow, his version ofwake me up when it’s burrito time.

Hurrying out of the room, I stop at the front door long enough to shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and snag my keys off the coffee table before I’m out the door and across the hall. Letting myself in, I hang my keys on the hook next to the door before pointing myself toward the apartment’s laundry room that Henley had converted to accommodate Ryan’s tank, not long after he moved in. As soon as I make sure he’s not trapped inside it, I’ll?—

“Hey.”

Letting out a startled yelp, I slap a hand over my mouth before I spin around to find Ryan in the kitchen behind me, leaning against the counter, drinking a cup of coffee, neck intact andnottrapped inside his deprivation tank.

“Jesus Christ.” Dropping my hand, I hiss it at him while he lifts his cup to his mouth to take a drink. “I thought you were?—”

“Face down in my toilet?” He gives me one of those flat, Ryan smiles that looks more like a grimace—a sure fire sign that he hasn’t taken his morning meds yet.

“I’m glad you find it funny,” I tell him, careful to keep my voice down while I make my way to the kitchen. “Considering you’re my only patient, you drowning in a toilet on my watch would seriously mess with my job status.” Stopping in front of the cabinet we keep his medication in, I key in the code tothe lock he installed, not long after Molly and Grace took up permanent residence. “I called you a few minutes ago,” I tell him, while I open the cabinet and pull out his prescription bottle of Oxycodone.

“I know.”

When he doesn’t say anything else, I look over to watch while he takes a slow sip of his coffee. Something is wrong. Ryan is never cagey. Blunt and rude as hell—but never cagey.

“Okay…” Dropping my gaze, I concentrate on working the top off the medication bottle in my hand with suddenly shaky fingers. “Is there something wrong? Did I—” It’s a fear of mine. Doing or saying something that could possibly endanger my place here. It’s a stupid thing to worry about. Working for the Gilroys is just a job and as an RN in the middle of a nursing shortage, jobs are not that hard to get.

Only, working as Ryan’s nurse isn’t just a job.

The Gilroys aren’t just my employers.

They’re my family. The only family I have—even if they don’t know it or even feel the same way.

What I’m thinking and feeling must show on my face because Ryan nearly chokes on his coffee, he tries swallowing it so fast.

“What?” he sputters while setting his cup on the counter between us. “What the hell could you’ve done wrong? You put up with a certified asshole, three crazy kids, and—no.” Shaking his head, he swipes a rough hand over his face. “No, Kaitlyn, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Hands still trembling slightly, I shake one small, yellow round tablet into my palm and offer it to him. “Okay. Then what’s with the Saturday morning ambush?”

“He’s married,” Ryan says, he tells me, right before he tosses his meds into his mouth and chases them with a swallow of coffee.

“Who’s married?” I feel my brow pucker, my eyes narrowed slightly while I focus my attention on filling the empty spots in his pill caddy. There aren’t many. As a matter of fact, if I wasn’t still recovering from the near panic attack he just gave me, I’d be going toe-to-toe with him over the fact that he’s been skipping too many doses of his pain meds lately. I get why. Henry’s birth mother was an addict who loved her pharmaceuticals. Ryan doesn’t want Henry to see him taking pills. Doesn’t want him to worry that this isn’t a safe place for him and Allison, after all.

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