Sawyer’s jaw sharpened at the nickname, and I felt a little guilty. I hadn’t liked being reminded that I had people in my life who loved me and wanted me to be okay, if only because I was such a spectacular failure at being okay.
“Well, keep it up,” she said, her expression stern. “On top of that, Mr. Cavanaugh, you need rest. Deep rest. Lots of sleep and good nutrition.”
“I hate sitting still,” I whined.
“Ah, poor thing.” She pointed at Sawyer. “We’ll chat about getting him on a strength training routine in a month or so, but for now he needs to recover.”
I gaped at them. “Don’t I have any say in that?”
They looked at each other, then looked at me and responded in unison. “No.”
Jerks.
After Dr. Ahmed left, Sawyer tucked his tie into his shirt, rolled up his sleeves, and set about making lunch. He hadn’t tried to speak to me since the morning, and it left me feeling kinda itchy.
Right as I was beginning to overthink his silence, someone knocked at the door. I got up before Sawyer could react, but I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head as I made my way—still hella unsteady—to answer.
I rocked back when I opened the door to my motherandfather.
I hadn’t seen the two of them in the same room together since I was a teenager. Even though his hairline was starting to retreat, my father was a good-looking man, and his sheriff’s uniform was, admittedly, impressive.
My mom, however, was on another plane of existence. I’d always thought she looked like a mash-up of Morticia Addams and Marilyn Monroe. Her facial structure was delicate, and she had pale skin, huge blue eyes, and full lips, along with a fall of stick-straight black hair past her shoulders. She refused to color her hair or wear more than minimal makeup. The thick white streak that originated at her part and the crow’s-feet around her expressive eyes were newer, and they somehow made her even more beautiful.
Today, even with her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing a simple T-shirt and classic, worn-in jeans, she was elegant.
My father gulped as she brushed past him to place a kiss on my forehead. We’d all come a long way from when they split up, butI didn’t think he’d ever get over her. She’d dated on and off since their divorce, but never anything serious. When they sat on the couch, he put his arm around her waist and she set her temple against his shoulder.
I wasn’t sure if that meant anything or if it was simply a gesture of support between parents who probably had more to be concerned about than most.
“Sorry for worrying you.” My voice cracked. “And, uh, for apparently making both of you cry.”
“Son, your voice,” Mom said, bringing her hand to her mouth.
Seconds later, I couldn’t miss the sound of the water faucet being turned on and the clicking of the stove. Agnes was making me more tea.
“I know. I’ve been overdoing it. I’ve already canceled the rest of the tour. My manager is screaming mad, but I think I’m done. I don’t think I want to do this anymore.”
I’d discovered a number of texts and voicemails from Paul. I was happy to let them go unanswered, but Sawyer had demanded to read and hear them. After, he’d taken his phone and gone outside. I felt like a wimp, letting him handle what was no doubt a tense conversation with Paul. I had a feeling, though, that Sawyer had made sure he’d never leave me another message ever again.
My father’s jaw trembled, and my mother slumped against him, looking like the weight of the world had just been lifted from her. She turned into his chest, and her shoulders started heaving. He raised his hand to stroke her back. “Son,” he said, his voice unsteady, “your mother and I have been so frightened for you.That video… God, it was awful. You have no idea how grateful we are that you already look so much better.”
“That’s because Sawyer is basically force-feeding me. Don’t let the fancy clothes fool you—he’s a drill sergeant under all of his finery.”
The kettle went off, and seconds later Sawyer set down a steeping mug of Throat Coat.
“Would either of you like tea or coffee?” he asked my parents, far more nicely than he’d ever asked me.
They declined, but Sawyer insisted they stay for lunch. He went back to the kitchen to prepare the food while I was left to fend for myself with the dueling guilt-trippers. My mother was still leaning against my father.
“I know I fucked up a lot of things,” my father confessed. “A lot. And I know some of this has to do with how I fucked up. But I’m not gonna do that anymore. I’m here. I’m here to take care of you, and to support your mom. We love you so much, and whatever is driving you to treat yourself this way, we havegotto figure it out. Together.”
A snarky comment sat poised at the tip of my tongue, but I kept it to myself. When I was a teenager, I could be counted on to say the most cutting, awful thing possible in any situation. Back then it had felt justified, given how much I’d thought my father hated me. But the way he was looking at me now, I wondered if maybe he’d never hated me at all. Hearing him say he wanted me to take care of myself was enough of a mindfuck that I might just listen to him.
I grabbed my mom’s hand as I answered my father. “The thing that fucked me up at the beginning of the year was sitting alonein this cabin, going stir-crazy. This go-round, I need to make sure I have something to do.”
Sawyer walked in and set a glass of water in front of me, along with a tiny pile of supplements. “You won’t be alone this time. I’ll be staying with you. And once you’ve rested sufficiently, I’ll make sure you have plenty to do. We’ve got to build some muscle onto that frame of yours. No need to go around looking like a Dickensian orphan.”
I gave him the bird. “The Dickensian orphan aesthetic happens to be my bread and butter.”
