Page 71 of Hold Still

McKenna

IN MY DRIVEWAY,I hold my breath and wait for Ozzy to leave. Please leave. Of course, he doesn’t. Instead, his chin goes up a couple of notches.

My heart pounds. Realizing I’m going to have to tell him some version of the truth, I sigh and turn Mom and me toward the red front door. “Come on, Mom. Let’s get you inside.”

We shuffle up the short front walkway to the door, which I open and motion for her to enter. Once inside, she plants her hands on her hips and says, “Aren’t you going to invite Mateo inside?”

From behind me, Ozzy agrees. “Yeah, McKenna.Mateowould like to come in.”

Cornered, my whole body droops. There’s no getting around telling him about Mom. Or about Matt. Unless I can pull an invisibility cloak from somewhere. “Fine.” I usher both of them into the living room.

He’s so big, he dwarfs the size of the room. His eyes bounce from family photos to our neat but aging furniture. Not wanting to offer him a drink but knowing that Mom, even in her fugue state, will do so, I ask, “Iced tea?”

“I’d love some,” comes his instant response.

Leaving him alone with Mom is my only option, so I make quick work of pouring the drinks. The opened letter from the parole board catches my eye, and I shove it into the junk drawer, in the off-chance Ozzy walks in and sees it. When I return with two glasses, Mom’s deep in conversation with Ozzy. However, her words jump, making her sound like a crazy person.

Which, in a sad way, I guess she is.

“Here.” I pitch his glass toward him and put mine down on the coffee table. “It’s time for bed, Mom. Say goodnight.” I close my eyes, hoping she doesn’t put up a fuss, especially since she was out roaming tonight.

Obediently, she stands and kisses Ozzy’s cheek. “So good to see you again, Mateo. McKenna hasn’t been herself since you stopped coming around. Now, you kids kiss and make up, and I’ll see you both in the morning.” She pecks my cheek and leaves for her bedroom. I’ll check in on her once I get rid of Ozzy.

Pursing my lips, I look at my unwelcome visitor. “Happy? You can go now.” I pluck his untouched drink out of his hand and use it to point at the door.

Ozzy’s face blanks. It actually changes from the open and loving man I know, who was being so patient and understanding with Mom, into one I barely recognize as his. “I think not.” He settles deeper into the couch.

I stand, holding his glass for a minute before giving up and returning it to him. Collapsing into Mom’s chair, my butt slants forward when a knitting needle stabs it. I pull the offending needle away from my body and toss it onto the table, where it lands with a soft clunk. Crossing my arms like a disobedient child, I say nothing, daring him to speak.

“What’s wrong with your mother?”

Delaying, I reach out and take a sip of my own drink. Should’ve put rum in it. Or skipped the tea altogether.

His dark eyes follow my every move. “She’s.” My mouth clamps shut and I look out the window into the dark evening where Mom was wandering around in her pajamas. Thank God Becky called, but I can’t rely on her to keep tabs on my mother any longer. She’s my responsibility and I’ve been slacking.

My hand rubs the back of my neck. Exhaling, I complete my sentence in a rush, “She has early onset dementia.” My face falls to my hands clasped in my lap.

When he remains silent, I look up at the man who has made the past few weeks better than any others in my life. He studies his glass. After taking a drink—his Adam’s apple bobs in the masculine way that makes my heart skip a beat—he looks at me. “What can I do?”

His words both humble and infuriate me. Comfortable anger takes precedence. My words come out in a shrill tone. “Do you think I can’t take care of my own mother?”

He places his glass on the coffee table. In a calming tone, he replies, “I didn’t say that at all, McKenna. I want to help you.”

“I don’t need any help. She’s my responsibility.”

“Yes, as her only child, she is. And what you’re doing is very honorable. But, everyone needs help sometimes, right? Look what you’ve done for my music.”

I swallow over the baseball trying to come up through my throat. Averting my gaze from the man occupying not only my living room but also too much space in my heart, I reply, “I’ve got it.”

He nods. “You know what’s best. I’m here for you, if I can do anything.” He runs his hand through his hair.

“Thanks,” I say, knowing I cannot accept his help. Daddy passed the responsibility to me and I will never dishonor my vow. Plus, Ozzy has his feet out of Vegas—his residency ends in a few weeks and he’ll be gone.

“So.” He clears his throat. “Who’s Mateo?”

My stomach clenches at the sound of the name spilling from Ozzy’s lips. My eyes stray to the kitchen, where the letter now resides in the junk drawer, screaming out like a beating heart. Why did Mom have to confuse him with Ozzy? Okay, they’re both Latino, but that’s where the resemblance ends. They couldn’t be more opposite if they tried. For one, Ozzy’s free to roam the streets. “He’s no one.”

“McKenna.”

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