Page 33 of If Love Had A Manual

“Still singing?”

I tense, my fingers gripping the armchair just a little tighter. I don’t talk about my singing. Ever. “That’s more of a hobby.”

“Your grandpa brags about your voice like he’s your talent manager.”

I shoot him a narrow-eyed glare. “You’ve been running your mouth again?”

He shrugs his frail shoulders, mumbling over a mouthful of sandwich. “Why have a talented granddaughter if I can’t shamelessly exploit her?”

Doris laughs. “He’s got a point. Give us a little concert sometime?”

Grandpa scoffs. “Good luck with that. Lena’s too shy.”

“I am not shy,” I protest weakly, heat creeping up my neck.

“Sure, kid. Whatever you say.”

The truth is far more complicated. It’s easier to sing in front of strangers because singing isn’t just a casual pastime for me. It’s always been my escape. When Mom died, my dad emotionally checked out and piled adult responsibilities onto my teenage shoulders. Music became my safe haven.

“Lena?” Grandpa’s gentle voice interrupts my thoughts.

I smile, forcing back the old ache. “I should probably rescue your watch.”

As the nurse leaves, Grandpa watches Rosie nestle comfortably in my arms, his eyes soft. “She’s a heartbreaker already. You should bring her when you visit next. She’s lifted an old man’s spirits.”

I give his hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ll be here.”

Eleven

Wes

Idon’t expect to walk in and see her like this.

It’s a cruel and unusual punishment.

She’s on all fours.

Fuck. Me.

I freeze just outside the living room, keys still in my hand, staring at the very real, very unholy sight of Lena crawling across my living room floor in a pair of tight jeans.

Give me a break.

Did I notice her ass in those jeans this morning? Damn right I did. I’m parenting solo, not dead. But then she started serenading Rosie with Kumbaya, and I was too confused for coherent thought.

She’s talking to Rosie, but I can’t process words.

I see the face of every saint I’ve never prayed toflash before my eyes.

She’s mumbling something about “emergency surgery” while a stuffed dog hangs half out of her hoodie pocket.

I just got home. I’m sweaty. I’m cranky. And now, apparently, I’m fighting for my life in my own house.

“Hey!” she chirps, glancing over her shoulder like she didn’t just give me a stroke. “We’re playing animal rescue. I’m the vet, Rosie’s the patient, and Mr. Woofles had a very traumatic fall off the couch.”

“Uh-huh,” I manage, blinking like I just walked into a hallucination. “Everyone…gonna make it?”

She nods solemnly. “I’ve stabilized the cat and the dog, but Ms. Dolly might not make it through the night.”

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