“I'm fine.”
“Momma.”
“I said I'm fine, Sadie.”
“When did it start?” I ask.
A pause. “This morning.”
“This morning.” I keep my voice even. “And you called me about the machine.”
“The machine needed fixing.”
“You should have led with the shortness of breath.”
Taking a pull off her vape, she shakes her head. “I knew you'd make a fuss.”
Walker pushes off the doorframe. “Mrs. Sullivan,” he says pleasantly, “Seems to me like the kind of thing a doctor should take a look at. I can give y’all a ride.”
My mother and I have a silent stand-off in which she telegraphs that I’m fussing, I tell her I don’t care what you callit, we’re going to the ER, and she reluctantly agrees. The whole silent conversation takes about ten seconds, and then we’re off.
Walker and I help her down the stairs. He opens the rear door for her and makes sure she gets inside okay.
Walker's truck is the nicest vehicle my mother has ever been inside in her life. She runs one hand along the leather seat and sniffs.
“You sure you’re a real cowboy?” she says. “You’d think all this would be caked with dirt. I suppose you pay someone to keep this thing clean enough to eat off of.”
Only Momma could make telling someone their truck was clean sound like an insult.
Walker rolls with it, totally unruffled. “I’m at the point in my life where I use money to save time.”
He opens the front passenger door for me before hopping back in the driver’s seat. His hand finds mine and he twines our fingers together.
I can feel by the burning sensation at the back of my neck that Momma’s watching the way he touches me like a hawk.
“Yep. Real fancy truck,” Momma continues, voice dripping with disapproval. “You always like to throw your money around?”
His lips twitch. “I stay within budget, ma'am,” he says gravely.
Considering he has an eight-figure net worth, this truck is well within budget.
“Momma,” I say, glancing back at her, “stop hassling the man for how he spends his own money.”
“I'm just saying. Plenty of celebrities go broke. What's his name, with the private island? And the other one, the one who owes ninety million to that Vegas casino.”
It hangs in the air unsaid between all of us: my father’s gambling addiction that wrecked our family. It took a lot forme to reveal that to Walker, but I’m glad I did now. Because he knows exactly what he’s doing when he says his next words.
“Last time I played cards was a charity poker tournament seven years ago,” Walker tells her carefully. “Gambling ain't one of my vices.”
“What is? Young women you hire to come live in your home and perform services?”
“Momma.” My voice comes out sharp.
“I'll be honest with you, Mrs. Sullivan.” Walker's tone is steady and pleasant, like she hasn't just said something that would make most men defensive. “I curse like a sailor and I won't say no to good whiskey or a Cuban cigar. I stay up too late and I'm set in my ways and I've got a temper, which your daughter seems to find very entertaining to provoke.”
“She's got a talent for that,” my mother grumbles.
“Excuse me!” I say. “I’m right here.”
