“When will that be, bunny?” Matt asked himself. And what the hell was going on? Something was. He could feel it. But rather than tell her that, he simply replied,Okay, I love you.
Then, he stripped the sheets off the bed.
Matt carried them into the laundry room. Stained with her blood, a mortified Gina had advised him to throw them away when she got up and saw the mess.
“Shit, that’s never going to come out.” She gasped at the sight. “Towel or no towel, I knew this would happen. It’s my heaviest day.”
“They’re just sheets, babe.” And he kissed her. “Besides, it was worth it.”
Didn’t she realize he loved every part of her? A little blood didn’t repulse him, and quite honestly, with Gina, her period had the opposite effect on him. Was that weird? Maybe. And there was a time he would’ve thought so. But there was something about seeing them both covered in the mess they made together that made him feel some kind of way.
Undeterred, Matt loaded the sullied white cotton into the washer. Sheets had to be white.And soft. It was one of the few odd quirks he had. The fabric could be silk, bamboo, cotton, or linen—that part didn’t matter so much as long as it felt good on his skin, but they had to be white as the pure driven snow.
“Do your thing, OxiClean.” He lowered the lid with a chuckle.
His grandmother swore by the stuff. Addicted to infomercials, Matt fondly remembered finding her glued to the TV at two in the morning, watching Billy Mays hawk the latest, greatest miracle cleanser. She bought damn near everything she saw, too. Ginsu steak knives. The George Foreman grill. Hell, they had an entire drawer of forgotten gadgets to prove it.
He missed her.
Maybe they didn’t have a lot, but his grandmother did her best by him. Matt always had clean clothes, a home-cooked meal waiting on the table, and a hug whenever he needed one. She was often sad, though, especially around his birthday, but then her daughter died the day he was born, and surely, the date only served as a reminder. Twelve years later, her son was killed fighting a fire on St. Patrick’s Day. So young, too. He was only twenty-four. God, he’d idolized his uncle. His tragic death completely gutted him.
So, Matt understood why she never made a fuss over his birthday. No party. No cake with candles. And it was okay, because she’d lost a lot, and he knew she was hurting. More importantly, he knew she loved him. His grandmother was the one who always encouraged him to work hard, fight for what he wanted, and chase after all of his dreams.
She gave him his first guitar, after all.
Ten years gone now, Ellen McCready didn’t get to see the band’s success. She passed away from Hodgkin’s lymphoma just months before they made it big. Matt never got to buy her a big house or the fancy car like he promised her he would, not that she wanted any of those things. In the end, she only wanted to go home and be with her family again.
He just wanted her to stay a little while longer.
Love you, Grandma. Tell my mom, Grandpa, and Uncle Mark hello for me, will you?
Matt heard a knock at his front door, and that was odd, considering people came and went as they pleased around here. It was annoying sometimes, but usually he didn’t mind it very much. When he opened it, he found Katie’s brother standing on his porch.
“Well, hey, Kev. What brings you here?”
“Hey, Matt.” With a lopsided grin, he picked at the hairs that clung to his forehead. A cool day in late September, and here, the poor kid was sweating. “I’m helping my aunt and Kodiak move in next door, and I was wondering if you could give us a hand. I swear, it’ll only take a minute.”
“Sure thing, buddy. Got all the time you need.” Swinging an arm around Kevin’s shoulders, they went down his porch steps. “What can I help you with?”
“Stuffing my new uncle’s big-ass couch through the front door,” he said, pointing to the leather culprit sitting in limbo onthe walkway. “I keep trying to tell them it ain’t going in that way, but who’s gonna listen to me?”
“Hey, Kelly.” He greeted the newlyweds, his new neighbors, with warm hugs and a kiss to the ice queen’s cheek. “Kodiak. Welcome, my friend, and congratulations on your nuptials.”
Dillon rolled his eyes.
Having come to his senses, the dude returned from his sojourn in Ireland a few weeks ago. Like a bookmark holding a place in a story that’s moving too fast, Dillon had always loved Linnea. Kyan’s death had been a mind-fuck for everyone, but for him most of all. Losing a brother? Playing house with his widow? Caring for his infant daughter? That had to have messed with his head. Matt was just glad they both sorted through their shit and were happy. It’s what Kyan would’ve wanted for them.
“I don’t understand why you can’t get it in.” Linnea studied the couch, Charlotte bouncing in her arms. “Chloe and I moved that sofa into Oak Street all by ourselves.”
“As I recall, you had a lot of help, gorgeous,” Dillon said, taking the baby. “It took me, my brother, Brendan, and Bo to lift that thing.”
“Well, what seems to be the problem, then?”
Oh, here we go.
“Gee, I dunno, Kelly.” Dillon returned her mocking stare. “Let me think… the width of the door, maybe?”
“Or maybe you’re not as strong as you used to be.” She pursed her lips with a shrug. “Been skipping the gym?”
