He chuckles, planting more kisses to my hair before leaving.
Iset down Dad’s breakfast tray and wait while he takes his medication. “Get some sleep, Hank?”
“Mhmmm, a little.” He swallows a mouthful of tea, plucking up a triangle of toast smothered in jam. It’s always been his favorite breakfast—strong tea with a little milk, one sugar; two slices of strawberry jam on grain toast. He’s a creature of habit, always has been.
“Good, well. Take it easy today, okay?”
He looks up at me now, his gaze snagging on the small Band-Aid I swapped the large bandage out for this morning. “You alright? What happened to your face?”
“Just being clumsy, is all. Finish your breakfast, and holler if you need me.”
“Right, yes. Thank you for the tray.” His gaze is anywhere but on me now, like it’s impolite to stare at a stranger’s woes. That part of my dad is still alive and well, I see.
I pad upstairs to my room. The bed is made, the place neat as a pin. Better than I left it.
Still tired from the last twenty-four hours, I flop onto my bed face-first.
I’m hit with the overwhelming scent of Quin.
I groan into the pillow.
Dammit. Why is he so damn addictive? I’m not so naive as to believe whatever we have between us will turn into somethingworth keeping. He has Maisey to think about. I may not be around for that long... If Dad gets worse, like he was last night, I will have no choice but to find a place for him in a home.
The devastating thought crashes into me.
Emotion closes over my throat.
Could I do that? Send him away, like a naughty kid who keeps messing up?
He would never give up on me. Ever.
But I can’t take care of him properly here, or by myself, if he’s?—
I sob into the pillow. Ugly, long wails that break my heart inch by inch with every one that slips up my throat.
The first sign of trouble, and I’m just giving up.
I can’t even be a decent daughter. How the hell would I cope with being responsible for someone for eighteen years... Like Quin is for Maisey.
I’m a hopeless daughter; I’d be an even worse parent.
I can’t breathe.
The hot, damp pillow slowly suffocates me. My lungs burn, and I snap my head up, pushing away from the bed with my palms.
I suck in much-needed cool air before crashing back down on my side and curling into a ball.
I’ve lost the plot. It was one incident, and Dad is fine. I’m the one who has a cut-up face.
Quin never asked me to be... anything. For himorMaisey.
I’m overreacting, overtired, and—ugh—just so over it.
I let the weight of the last month take me down, and it’s not productive.
Time to get up and shower, and maybe eat then take a nap. The world will look brighter when I’m rested.
That’s it, I’m just tired.
