Page 42 of Mr. Not Nice Guy

I can barely eke out the words, “Which one?”I stand up with wobbling knees and grab my purse as she gives me the address, then start blindly marching toward the door. “I’m on my way.”

Lucky is suddenly standing in front of me, holding me in place with his hands bracing my shoulders. “What happened?”

“I need to go,” I squeak.

“You need a ride,” he deduces, moving to my side, placing his hand on my back, and nudging me forward to the door. “I’ll drive you.”

I can’t even tell if I nod or acknowledge him in any way other than simply walking with him. Leaving the house is a haze. So is getting in his car. So is the drive to the hospital.

When he pulls into the drive in front of the doors to the Emergency Room, Lucky turns to me and strokes my cheek with his thumb. “Want me to come in with you?”

I offer a numb shake of my head. “Thanks for the ride.”

His dark brows lift with concern. “I can call August and have him meet you.”

“I’ll do it.” I swallow, biding time before I have to walk straight into the center of my worst nightmare. “Thanks though.”

Lucky looks at me with kindness and a sympathetic smile, and then steps out of the car. He crosses around to my side and opens the door, holding out his hand to me. I take it as I stand up, feeling like the weight of the whole damn universe is crushing down on my shoulders, all the while a pang continues to smack against the inside of my ribs.

Lucky lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. “Take care of you, all right?”

I can’t even force a smile. “Thanks, Lucky.”

Stepping away from him and approaching the sliding glass doors feels like a death march. Once inside, my feet feel like they’re strapped to concrete blocks, and in a sudden, panicked reflex, I pull my phone out of my purse, hovering my thumb above the screen as I realize I don’t want to do this alone, and there’s only one person I want with me right now.

For all of two seconds, I stare at August’s name on the screen, and then the words he left me with earlier echo through my mind.

If shit goes south, I hope you know exactly who not to fucking call.

Touché, August. Touché.

I’m the reason I can’t call him right now, so I put away the phone and focus, then speed walk to the elevator that will take me straight to the person who matters most, in the moment that matters most, and I refuse to let anything distract me from that. Once the doors open, I march down the hall and through the unit to the room where she’s waiting, and upon seeing her, I might as well be the little, tiny girl she stepped up to raise when my mother walked out.

Antoinette is seated in a chair at the bedside, holding Maw-Maw’s knobby, frail, weathered hand in her lap. She looks up at me through sad, blue eyes flanked by fine lines, which are turned down like the frown that tugs the corners of her mouth. Standing up, she continues to hold Maw-Maw’s hand and waves me over.

“You still got a little time, Scarlett,” she says quietly. “She can feel you. Just be here with her right now.”

I approach the bed anddon’ttake her hand. This isn’t a time for sweet little hand-holds in an effort to avoid making people uncomfortable or to not disturb Maw-Maw during her nap. This is when you do everything in your power to make sure they feel you and the heart-drowning love you feel for them.

I lift the sheet and crawl into the bed with her. I mold my whole body against her side and tuck my chin between her neck and shoulder and wrap my arm across her middle and hold my breath. I feel like I could suffocate under the weight of the impending tears and anguish at the inevitable end that’s barreling toward me.

“What will I do, Maw-Maw?” My voice is small and tight and riddled with cracks. Antoinette sniffles from across the room, but I don’t really notice it. “What am I gonna do?”

A quiet sob works its way up my throat, but I don’t really want the last thing she hears from me to be tears. Instead, I draw in a breath and open my throat to give her the thing she loved the most.

And I sing.

Quietly.

Privately.

Just for her.

A song she taught me; one that’s even older than she is.

Smile, though your heart is aching. Smile, even though it’s breaking.

She doesn’t move or respond in any way. She doesn’t pat my head or my hand. But somehow, somewhere in my own breaking, aching heart, I know she hears me and she knows that all of it has always been for her.

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