Page 124 of If Love Had A Manual

Two words, but they land like a bomb.

The silence that follows scrapes across my skin.

“I’ll be there.”

No questions. No commentary. No feelings. Just that same blunt-edged resolution he always has.

I hang up, swipe at my face, and focus on breathing through the pressure building in my chest like a scream that doesn’t know how to form.

When I finally pull into the parking lot of the nursing home, I don’t move right away. My fingers hover over my phone again, this time already knowing who I want to tell, who I need.

But it’s nearly four a.m., and Rosie will be asleep. He will be, too. Yet my fingers move anyway, just to type out a quick text, letting him know that my grandpa isn’t doing well, so I won’t be there for Rosie in the morning.

I stare at the message for a second, debating.

Then I hit send.

Maybe just knowing he’ll wake up and read it, maybe just imagining him seeing my name on his screen…it helps.

It makes me feel less alone.

I kill the engine and step out, the night air sharp against my skin. This place is always quiet at night. Usually, that brings comfort.

Tonight, it feels wrong. Too still. Too eerie. Like the calm that comes before everything shatters.

My heart lurches, but my legs move when I will them to.

Inside, his door is half open. It’s full with soft beepsand shuffling feet and hushed voices. Nurses move with gentle urgency. There are IV lines and machines and monitors that blink in the dark like they know more than I do.

When my eyes land on Grandpa, I’m suddenly not walking anymore. I’m stumbling, crashing down into the chair at his bedside, clutching for his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

His fingers twitch. Just enough.

Still warm.

Still here.

“Hey,” I whisper, tears already slipping down my cheeks.

His eyes flutter open, barely slits, but that stubborn gleam is still there. It’s dimmer, but alive.

“Hush, child,” he rasps, voice like sandpaper. “I’m eighty-five. You can’t be that surprised.”

“Don’t,” I choke out on a sob, shaking my head while trying to blink the tears back. “You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”

His mouth twitches, something between a smile and a wince. “Your grandmother’s probably already nagging me. She’ll be wondering why I’m late.”

That breaks me. A wet laugh rips from my throat. “You can’t go. I’m not ready.”

“You’ll be okay,” he says. Certain. “He promised me he’d look after you.”

Oh God, Wes.

Of course he did.

A strangled sob works its way up my chest. “Are you scared?”

“Oh no. I’m not scared.”

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