Page 93 of The Sweetest Obsession

“Nothing special. Just dinner and an age-appropriate movie.”

But it is special when it’s you and me—when it’s us, I think.

Of course, I keep that to myself, only smiling brighter.

“You just want to take my mind off everything.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, absolutely serious.

It’s so Grant.

So many little things, the way he tells me I’m important with such subtle gestures. Maybe dinner and a movie isn’t much to most girls, but it’s Grant Faircross wanting to spend time with me, wanting to help me forget the myriad ways life keeps going wrong.

It’s Grant showing me hecares.

For now, that’s enough to leave me quiet with a thousand feelings flopping around as he bends to kiss my cheek one more time, then tucks my hair back with one last long look before turning to go.

My knees still feel hilariously weak from that first kiss.

Oh, this is bad.

I’m in big trouble and I don’t think I care.

* * *

I wishI could hold on to that feeling.

But by the time I pick up my newly repaired rental car from Mort’s, I’m already dreading the short drive across town.

That cold feeling becomes a lump of frozen lead as I step into the medical center.

The nurses at the front desk just wave me through.

No need to check the hometown girl, I guess. It’s one of the rare times when I wish everyone in this small town didn’t know my business, just so they’d stall me for a minute or two, making me sign the visitor register or something.

Anything to delay the inevitable—seeing Mom in that bed again.

I’m already an emotional mess by the time I get to her room.

Yes, I want to be with her, to comfort her, to hope that my presence will help her fight to a miraculous recovery, knowing her girls are waiting for her—but I also can’t stand how frail she looks, like a skeleton that hasn’t remembered to stop breathing yet.

I can’t stand that she’sstillnot waking up.

This doesn’t feel like a restful sleep. More like the precursor to the very end.

With a deflated sigh, I sit next to her bed and clasp her thin, bony hand. With my free hand, I stroke back the wisps of blonde hair left so dry by the chemo and other drugs they’re pumping into her system to keep her alive.

“I’m not ready,” I whisper, pulling her hand against my chest. “I’m not ready to lead this family, Mom. Ros is a mess. I think she’s making a big mistake and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her, how to help you...”

My voice cracks.

I can’t hold in the tears anymore as this chill rakes down my spine. I squeeze my mother’s hand, trying to be strong for her, trying not to shake.

Not strong enough to stop the torrent.

I cry.

Quietly. Secretly. Intensely.

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