He tries to push off the table as if he can pretend his way out of this conversation, but his knees wobble. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”
My stomach knots, and I pull out a chair. “Sit.”
He doesn’t argue, which is another sign of how bad he feels.
I unzip my lunchbox and pull out the sandwich I was going to eat. “Here.”
“I’m fine,” he protests weakly.
I lean in to get his attention. “You’re not fine. Eat something.”
He takes the sandwich, ripping off a bite.
I sit beside him, barely resisting the urge to reach for his hand. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“I’m just tired.” His voice is thin, fragile.
“No, there’s more to this. What’s going on?”
He hesitates, taking another bite. “Today’s just… bad.”
The word sits heavy between us. Bad as in a rough night of sleep and no breakfast, or bad as in his body is taking him through a war?
Maybe both.
I wish I could take it all away.
I slide the rest of my lunch over to him. “Take it.” He protests, but I shake my head. “Seriously. I have more food in the truck.”
He seems relieved.
“Hey, Fletch.”
I look up to see Declan. “Hey.”
“The restrooms are looking great. I’m so happy with them.”
I smile. “Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Are we still on schedule to be done next week?”
“Yup. Tuesday or Wednesday, I think.”
“Awesome.”
When he looks at Vince, Vince immediately sits up a little straighter. “Sorry, I’m just—”
Declan waves him off. “You’re good. No need to get up.”
He walks away without another word.
I touch Vince’s leg under the table, speaking with my eyes.Talk to him.
Vince ignores me, finishing the sandwich.
I sit with him for ten minutes, wishing the food would bring a little color back to his face. He’s still so pale.
My brother’s voice reaches me from the front door. “Fletcher, got a minute? I need to run something by you.”
