Page 17 of Can't Get Enough

Of course. There is no reverse. No getting better. There is holding for a while and then there is getting worse. Those are the only two gears, and this disease eventually just runs your brain into a ditch, heedless of the lifelong memories plowed under its wheels.

“I think I’ll take a quick walk,” I manage, reaching to set my empty glass on the bar. I turn away, saying over my shoulder, “I’ll be back. Just need a sec.”

Without waiting for a response, I stride toward the nearly deserted dock. The bay looks serene as the sun sets. My feet speed up, taking me to the edge of the water in a few steps, in a matter of seconds. I stand there and let the slightest breeze caress my face. I fight back fresh tears and soothe myself by humming a hymn from better days.

CHAPTER 4

MAVERICK

Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned my grandfather.

It obviously upset Hendrix when I admitted that he’s gone now. The years from the time he was diagnosed until his body finally surrendered to the ravaging of his mind were some of the hardest my family experienced. My mother became his primary caregiver, and the burden was beyond what anyone should have to endure.

“I hate that for Hen,” Chapel says, resting her back and elbows on the bar and looking out over the crowd. “I hoped she’d get through the whole party without that happening.”

“Does her mom have a nurse or something?” Zere asks.

“Someone comes in to help when needed,” Chapel says. “But her aunt Geneva moved in a few months ago from Virginia. Hendrix goes home all the time. Her mom doesn’t want to go to a facility until it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Makes sense,” I say, nodding. “My grandfather stayed home until we had no other choice.”

“Hendrix would love for her mom to move to Atlanta.” Chapel sips her drink and her sympathetic gaze follows her friend down to the pier, “but she doesn’t want to leave the house that’s been her home for decades.”

“Well, being in familiar surroundingsisgood for them,” I agree. “Less disorienting than moving somewhere new.”

“You know a lot about this.” Zere frowns at me. “I don’t remember you talking about your grandfather having Alzheimer’s.”

I shrug. “I think I mentioned it once or twice, but he passed away before we met. I guess it just never came up much.”

“Hmmm.” Zere eyes me curiously like she’s wondering what other secrets I’ve kept hidden. It seems these days like she’s always trying to decode me; figure out what went wrong between us and where and how she missed it.

“Oh, my gosh,” Chapel squeaks, covering her mouth with one hand. “Is that Grip James over there?”

Zere nods, a grin denting her cheeks. “Yes. Did I forget to tell you he’s performing right before the fireworks?”

“Fireworks?” Chapel’s brows lift. “Y’all doing it big.”

“You want to meet him?” Zere tilts her head over to where Grip James, a popular rapper, and his wife, Bristol, stand by the pool.

“Uh, yeah. Duh.” Chapel stands up straight and runs a hand needlessly over her neat hair. “Yes, please.”

“He’s cool and so down-to-earth,” Zere says. “They both are.”

“He should be down-to-earth,” I half grumble. “Much as I’m paying his ass to perform two songs.”

Zere gives me a wry glance. “I think you can afford it, babe.”

That’s the thing about getting money. Somebody is always counting your cash for you, telling you what you can afford. I’m not a stingy dude, but my mom was the best haggler I ever met. I’ll never shake the art of getting the most out of a dollar.

“You coming?” Zere asks me. Her elbow is looped through Chapel’s and they’re both practically buzzing with anticipation.

“Nah.” I shake my head. “Think I’ll camp out here for a bit.”

“Not a Grip fan?” Chapel asks, her eagerness unmoved by my indifference.

“He aight.” I laugh at Zere’s horrified expression. “I mean, he ain’t Nas or Talib or Rakim or—”

“Oh, you got them old-ass ears.” Chapel chuckles, her voice lilting with humor.

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