Page 121 of If Love Had A Manual

My eyes sting with sudden tears because I don’t know how to answer him. I want to bury my face in his chest, let him hold me until this fear recedes, but I can’t do that right now.

I type a quick reply instead.

Me:He doesn’t seem like himself. I want to stay, but he won’t sleep properly with me there. He keeps waking up to make conversation with me.

Wes:Rest will do him good. You need some too. You need me for anything?

Me:Thanks, but I’m good. On my way home.

Wes:I thought you had stuff to do at your apartment tonight?

Me:I do. I said I’m on my way home.

Wes:That’s not your home, Lena.

My heart almost stumbles out of my chest, butthere’s another text before I can reply.

Wes:When you’re done, hurry your ass back to your real home.

Oh God, I didn’t need this today. My emotions are already all over the place. Now I’m really going to cry.

Me:Missing me?

I do it more to tease him, but his reply stops me cold.

Wes:Always.

Forty-Five

The bathwater hasn’t even cooled before I’m up again, standing in the middle of my bedroom, wrapped in a towel that’s already sticking to my skin. The steam still lingers, curling around my ankles like a ghost I didn’t invite, and for a second, it tricks me into thinking I might still feel okay.

I don’t.

The second I breathe, the dread comes back, like a second set of lungs lodged behind my ribs.

I pull a T-shirt over my damp skin, run a hand through my wet hair, and stare at nothing for a beat too long. So much for the peaceful night I promised myself. Wes even stopped by earlier with snacks in one hand and a bath bomb in the other, that smug smile on his face as if he could personally fix my entire emotional state with chocolate and some Epsom salts.

I’d almost cried. Didn’t, though. I promised him I’d try. Take the night. Reset. Just exist without holding everything up for once.

But my head won’t shut up. I’m too worried aboutGrandpa.

Now I’m curled up on the couch, hair damp against my neck, and wrapped in a throw blanket that’s about as useful as a paper napkin. Some reality show flickers on the screen, but I couldn’t tell you what it is. My phone sits beside me, face-up like a dare. I already called the nursing home twice tonight. I’m trying really, really hard not to do it again.

They’d call me if something changed. I know that.

But I’ve lived the “something changed.” I know how fast stable turns to holy shit. I know what it’s like to blink and lose a person.

I cave at ten o’clock and dial the number with fingers that won’t stop trembling.

A nurse I don’t recognize answers. “He’s resting,” she tells me. “We started antibiotics for a minor infection. He’s doing okay. Really.”

I thank her and hang up. Then I stare at the phone like it’s supposed to fix the pit in my stomach.

He used to hoist me up onto his shoulders like I was weightless. Now he naps too long, and his skin is so thin it bruises if you look at it sideways.

Eventually, I abandon the couch and crawl into bed, dragging the blanket up to my chin like it can hold me together. The quiet is worse in here. Louder, somehow. Meaner.

I shift. Flip the pillow. Try the other side. Still nothing.

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