I see the worry in Brandon’s eyes and force a small, wavering smile. “Dad would understand.”
He nods. “He would simply be glad you’re alright. As am I.”
Slowly, he lifts the back of my hand, his gaze intent. My breath halts, the tension building before he bends his head and kisses it lightly, with measured intent, like a knight pledging fealty.
Goose bumps race across my skin at the brush of his lips, my heart thudding.
Then, astonishingly, he bows his head and presses his forehead to my hand—a gesture so intimate it locks every muscle in my body. It’s deeper.
When he looks up, his gaze burns with resolve.
And though my heart beats for him, sadness sits heavily in my chest as I think of my guitar. My connection to Dad is fractured beyond repair. I’ll never get it back.
What does that mean for my music?
“You’ll play again,” Brandon murmurs, as if sensing my thoughts. “We’ll find you another guitar. When you’re ready.”
I shake my head sadly. “I appreciate you saying that. But…” I trail off.
There’ll be other guitars, but never one from Dad.
I blink and look away as my eyes start to burn, fighting off the tears.
“If he were here,” Brandon says with a faint smile tugging his lips, “he’d buy you a thousand guitars.”
I manage a weak scoff. “A thousand? He wasn’t that well-off.”
Softly, he brushes his lips over my knuckles. “A hundred, then. All waiting for you to playSweet Caroline.”
I almost laugh. The warmth of his palm seeps into mine, the touch of his lips lingering like a promise. Like he’s not going anywhere.
My eyelids grow heavy. “Do that again,” I whisper.
He does—another kiss, soft and sensual—and the rest of the world seems faraway.
“Get some rest,” he whispers, leaning over me to adjust the covers, his voice a low warmth against my cheek. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
And when I wake again, he is.
38
The Vigil
Brandon
Her foot needs surgery.
That’s the thought circling my brain after hours of radiology corridors and half-heard explanations. By the time we returned to her room, she was exhausted.
The radiologist completed his report. A doctor came by to confirm the fracture.
Then there was nothing to do but wait for the orthopaedic consult.
“He’ll be here soon,” a nurse promised more than an hour ago.
Finally, the orthopaedic registrar arrives and explains the findings in calm, clipped tones: complex break, misaligned bones, surgical correction required to ensure they heal properly.
They’ve scheduled it four days from now.
