Page 165 of Really Truly Yours

“Here’s the deal, old man.” I explain to him about our trip, from my impulsive blunders with my parents to my cluelessness at the game with Alyssa.

His eyebrows, peppered with silver, squeeze. “So this bimbo was nothing to you?”

“Alyssa is not a bimbo. Keep up, dude. But no, she’s nothing to me except the wife of a buddy and a friend to me.”

He watches me so long I’d pull out my phone and check email if I weren’t completely hanging on his answer. His opinion matters, and I need him on my side. Tripp, as always, is correct. Sydnee won’t be easily won.

Finally, Donny reaches for a tissue, squawks snot into it, then blows out a giant breath. “I’m glad to hear it. Don’t mean you didn’t done royally screw up. Your story don’t change that.”

“No, it doesn’t, but it’s a starting point. So. You’ve spoken with her. Where can I find, her, Dad?”

My slip of the tongue lights his eyes.

Or perhaps it wasn’t a slip this time. He’ll never be what Tom Smith is to me, but I’ve come to see he deserves respect. He’s another living, breathing soul who deserves regard for that reason alone. And making a sick old man hurt less seems a worthy aim.

The right thing.

His eyes glisten as he swipes a tissue beneath his nose. “She’s at the store. Picking up a few things for me and a few things for herself so she can stay here a night or two.”

The spasm that has been wreaking havoc with my heart ever since Tripp informed me of Sydnee’s flight north eases, as if a muscle relaxer finally made it to my bloodstream.

But I need her in my arms telling me I’m forgiven and that she and I—us—stands a chance.

Hopes too high?

Maybe I’m the cocky, entitled hotshot my siblings have teased me for. The truth is, yeah, women fall at my feet—and they pick my pocket and my dignity on the way back up.

Not Sydnee.

“She’s dodging that brother of hers.” His expression turns grave. “You know about Max, right?”

“I do.” I fill him in on our earlier encounter, as well as on Max’s supposed conversion.

Oh, Lord, do I have to respect that loser, too?

Donny snorts, but I see he’s considering Max’s claim. How could he not?

“Donny?” Tripp’s voice cuts across the drama.

We turn.

He leans into the conversation, elbows on his knees. “Sydnee told us what you did for her. How you protected her. And I think I speak for Gray when I say thank you.”

Tripp crosses the divide with his hand, laying it atop Donny’s.

“Thank you, son—” Donny’s eyes, already flirting with tears, fill completely. “I’m sorry. I mean, Tripp.”

My brother’s eyes line around the corners. “Son works. Dad’s tougher for me still, but I’m working on it.”

I see Donny’s hand literally shaking on the armrest. “No need. Donny is good enough. Having you here…that’s all I need.”

Miracles do happen. I’m a card-carrying believer. As for myself, I’m okay with Dad. I may not throw it around liberally. Only one man raised me, poured into me. There’s no cause to dwell on that now, and maybe never. The coming year or two won’t be easy for any of us. The report and proposed treatment plan from the new oncologist dealt out a fresh round of hope, not for forever, but for long enough to begin to get to know, really know, the man responsible for my earthly existence.

It’s a newly found need. I want to know this man. Tripp is probably still struggling with the reality of it, but, overall, I think he feels the same. Impending fatherhood has softened the ground and furrowed out rows for seeds to be planted so new life can grow. And maybe happily ever after is more of a mindset than a timeframe.

In Donny’s case, that is. Not gonna lie. I’m praying for a few decades for Sydnee and me, complete with babies and grandbabies and golden years together.

Man, it’s getting deep in here. All this syrupy stuff is drowning out the testosterone we’re all used to.

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