Page 86 of The Good Guy on My Porch

Oscar’s smile faded. “Are you okay?”

“It’s Mom. I need to go.”

I twisted free of his hands and took off at a run. I made it one block before he was next to me, jogging easily. “I’ll help,” he said.

“You’ll only make it worse.” I could just picture my mother’s face when I walked in with another stranger.

He didn’t falter, didn’t slow his pace. “Then I’ll wait outside. I’m not leaving you to handle this alone.”

I glanced over at him. I should tell him to get lost, should tell him I wanted him out of my life, but I couldn’t do it. I wanted him there. I wanted him with me in case the worst had happened.

By the time we reached my mother’s building, I was gasping for air, bent over, hands on my knees. Oscar rubbed my back. “Just breathe,” he said. “It’ll be okay.”

He wasn’t out of breath at all, and apparently, he thought my difficulty breathing was from worry and not from my being completely and utterly out of shape. I pulled in three deep breaths, stood, and faced him. “Would you mind waiting down here? If she’s in there and she’s upset…”

“I’ll wait right outside the door,” he said, his tone firm. “If you need help, I want to be able to hear you call for me.”

God, how did I get so lucky to have this man on my side, even after everything I’d said and done to him? I threw my arms around him in an impulsive hug and he squeezed me so tight. I wanted to stay there in his arms, didn’t want to go upstairs and see the horrible state my mother had to be in. “Thank you,” I said.

He said nothing, just held me, a silent source of strength, until I managed to find the resolve I needed to climb those stairs. I pushed out of his arms, but he laced his fingers through mine and held my hand, not letting go.

When we got to the top of the stairs, I knocked and then banged on the door. When there was no answer, the tears slid down my cheeks and my hands started shaking so bad I couldn’t knock anymore.

“Do you have a key?” Oscar asked.

“In my purse.” I reached and tried to unsnap the flap to get into my bag, but I couldn’t get my fingers to work. Gently, Oscar pushed my hand aside and took my bag from me. He opened the bag, rifled through it and pulled out a jangly set of keys.

“Are these the ones?”

I nodded and reached for them, but he shook his head. “I got it.” He fitted the key into each of the locks, and I listened as they clicked open. If Mom had chained the door, we wouldn’t be able to get in, but the door swung open as the last key clicked in the lock. I stepped forward, but Oscar pulled me back with a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll go in, first, just in case…”

He didn’t need to say the words, my chest tightened as he voiced the possibility I’d barely dared think about. “I can’t ask you to do that. What if—”

“You’re not asking.” He put his hands on my cheeks and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’m doing this for you, because I choose to. Let me help you, Dilly. Let me be here for you.”

“Okay,” I said, because I didn’t think I could take a step into that apartment and face the horrible scene I was sure awaited me.

He pressed a soft kiss to my lips and went inside. I wrapped my arms around my middle and squeezed tight. My heart was trying to climb its way out of my throat. I felt like I might break apart, like my body couldn’t contain all the fear and emotion that was overwhelming me. Oscar returned what must have been less than a minute later, his expression easy, his smile gentle. “Everything’s okay,” he said.

He laced his fingers through mine and pulled me inside and down the hall. As we neared my mother’s bedroom, I heard the bathroom fan, water running, and low voices. My heart started to slow to a normal rate, but my stomach was still twisted in knots. It wasn’t until I saw my mother’s frail body, her head in the bathroom sink as Mary washed her hair, that I truly relaxed.

Mary looked at me and smiled. “I’m almost done, honey. Wait for us in the living room?”

I let Oscar pull me to the living room and sat on the couch with him. He kept his hand in mine and just waited with me, not saying a word, not asking any questions, not asking me for anything. The sound of the hair dryer let me know it wouldn’t be much longer until I faced my mother again and I gripped Oscar’s hand tighter, my nerves returning.

When my mother walked into the living room, Mary right behind her, she looked a bit more like the mother I’d known as a child. Mary had colored the gray from her hair, returning it to the golden blond it had once been. “What do you think?” Momma asked with a nervous smile.

“I think you look beautiful,” I said.

Her gaze settled on Oscar and I remembered my manners. “Momma, this is Oscar. My…”

“Friend,” Oscar said. He stood and offered his hand to my mother. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Thompkins.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said. “Can I offer you a drink? Something to eat?”

“I should get to work,” he said. “But thank you. Maybe another time.”

He said hello to Mary and left with only a quick glance back at me before he walked out the door. Momma sat in the stained armchair.

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