I need to get the hell out of here. “You two get busy with the albums. I’ll go get dinner started.”
“The albums can wait.” Meema stands. “I’m going to cook.”
“You feel like it?” I say, surprised and concerned. Yesterday, she barely had the energy to pick at the meals I made. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
“I’m sure it’s an excellent idea.” She’s already heading toward the kitchen, moving faster than I’ve seen since I’ve been here. “Good news is better than any medicine, Brooksie. And this—” she gestures between Sydney and me “—is the best news I’ve had in... well, ever.”
As she disappears into the kitchen, Sydney and I remain frozen on the couch, the wooden dick lying between us, redefining the term cock-block.
“Well,” Sydney whispers, “that escalated quickly.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, and I mean it. “I didn’t think she’d go nuclear.”
“It’s fine. It’s... it’s good to see her with so much energy.” She carefully holds the dick by its base and sets it aside. “But I draw the line at wooden penises with creepy faces.”
A laugh escapes me—a short, rusty sound that seems to surprise us both. “Fair enough. I’ll hide it somewhere.”
“You better.” She glances toward the kitchen, where we can hear Meema humming as she moves around. “I should go home and pack some things, I guess. Since I apparently live here now.”
“You don’t have to do this. We can tell her you’re saving yourself for marriage.”
Sydney snorts out a laugh. “Maisie knows me better than that—no way. I’ve seen how she gets after bad days at chemo. If me here helps her fight harder, I’m in.”
I study her face, trying to reconcile this selfless version of Sydney with the sharp-tongued reporter who’s been a thorn in my side for years. “Thank you. And I’ll drop you home so you can get your car and things.”
She stands, brushing imaginary lint from her jeans. “Thanks. I hope Maisie doesn’t plan a June wedding while we’re gone.”
“No promises.”
She smiles, but it fades as resolve hardens her face. “She’s going to get better, Brooks. We’ll make sure of it.”
I hope to hell she’s right.
I drop Sydney at home, and she returns with her suitcase and a duffel bag. Meema has exhausted herself making a pot roast that smells better than anything I’ve had in a while. She’s asleep in her chair, the TV playing on mute, a faded smile still on her face.
“How is she?” Sydney whispers, setting her bags in the hallway.
“Crashed about a half-hour ago.” I lead her into the kitchen, away from Meema’s sleeping form. “But she ate a full plate of food.”
Sydney’s face softens. “That’s good. Really good.”
“Yeah.” I lean against the counter, suddenly hyperaware that Sydney Holt is about to move into my bedroom. “Listen, about the sleeping arrangements—”
“It’s fine,” she cuts me off. “My bed at home is a twin, anyway. As long as you stick to your side and don’t snore, we’ll survive.”
“I don’t snore,” I say automatically, then add, “I mean, I’ll take the floor.”
Sydney rolls her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your shoulder’s hurt, and you’re a foot taller than me. We’ll just have to share.”
“Fine.” I cross my arms, ignoring the twinge in my shoulder.
A smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “But the fertility frank stays in the closet.”
The image hits me with unexpected force—a little girl with Sydney’s blond hair and my eyes, maybe a boy with her smile and my stubborn chin. I shake my head to clear it.
Jesus, I need to get a grip. That’s not where this is going.
“I’ll show you to my… our room,” I say, awkward. “You can get settled.”
