Page 18 of Holly's Valentine Vow

“How does it work for you?” he queries, moving the chair away from the bed so it’s not in the way and pulling the commode chair closer. Hate to tell him this but when it comes time to take a shit, I’ll be getting into the actual bathroom. Even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees to get there. Hell, I’ll Army crawl since one of my damn legs has a cast up to the middle of my fucking thigh. Whatever it takes is my new motto. Ain’t no way I’m sitting on a glorified port-a-potty where anyone can just walk in while I’m going. No fucking way. A man needs to have some pride through this process, and I’ll claim it where I can.

The sweetest voice I know says, “Why, we talk things through. Rebel handles all car-related stuff, I deal with anyone if they’re sick, and we tackle the housework together.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” I say to my ol’ lady.

“Hey yourself, handsome,” she replies, leaning down to kiss me. Turning, she looks at Pedro and asks, “Are you his physical therapist?”

“I’m one of them, but it’s highly likely he’ll work mostly with me,” Pedro replies.

“Why?” Holly questions.

“Because the other three therapists are women who are petite like you. If Rebel starts to fall, not only he but they could be injured,” Pedro states.

“Well, that makes sense, I guess.” She turns and looks at me and says, “No falling on the female therapists, Rebel.”

I crack up laughing because she’s trying to look stern and failing miserably. My smile slowly slips off my face when I see that her eyes are red-rimmed, and she doesn’t look nearly as rested as I thought she would.

“I’m Pedro,” he finally tells her.

“And I’m Holly, his ol’ lady and fiancée,” she replies, holding out her hand. “Thank you for making sure he didn’t fall today.”

“He’s in a bit of discomfort right now,” Pedro advises her.

“He’s right here,” I chime in, disliking his attention being directed on Holly.

Yeah, I’m a jealous fucker, sue me. I mean, it’s not like the guy’s single, either. He’s got a wide gold band on his ring finger and a slight paunch so at least he’s eating well at home.

“Do you need me to ask for anything for pain, Rebel?” Holly asks, her attention now solely focused on me.

“I’ll be okay, sweetheart. Same time tomorrow, Pedro?” I question.

“Same bat time, same bat channel,” he teases. “Y’all enjoy the rest of your day.”

Once he leaves, I rub my hands together and ask, “What did Grammy make me?”

She giggles as she starts pulling containers out of the huge tote bag she carried in and sets them on the rolling table. “We have fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple crisp. Oh, and buttermilk biscuits too.”

Reaching over, I start opening everything and am amazed that it’s all still nice and warm. “How did you manage to keep it hot?”

“It was Pappy’s idea. He has a friend that does a lot of cross-country driving who hates to always eat fast food. He found this insulated bag that heats up and Pappy borrowed it from him so I could make sure it stayed warm.”

“Damn, remind me to thank him later.”

Chapter Ten

Holly

Once I havethe food all set up, I give him a plate and some utensils so he can get whatever he wants, then hang the pictures the girls colored for him on the front of the wardrobe. I feel like my tote is a Mary Poppins bag today because I just keep pulling things out that shouldn’t otherwise fit. His clean clothes, along with a few more pairs of shorts go inside the wardrobe, while the sodas he occasionally drink go on the counter so he can reach them easily, along with an insulated cup for him to get ice when he wants one of his drinks chilled. His plastic cup is full of water, and that’s what he typically drinks most days, but the girls insisted which is what I tell him when he raises his brow at me.

“Come, sit and eat with me,” he says, patting the side of the bed.

I make myself a plate, taking smaller portions than he did and lean back with a sigh. “God, Grammy’s a saint for doing this,” I murmur after taking a bite of my buttered biscuit.

“Definitely. Tell me why you look like you’ve been crying,” he demands.

“What makes you say that?” I question.

Deflect, Holly, deflect! Defcon alert.

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