“If the show is that bad, you…you can change the channel. You won’t hurt me none,” Senior rasps.
My eyes pop open.
His wide, dilated pupils stare back at me.
The screeching laughter from the audience on TV plays in the background like a haunting soundtrack as we stare at each other.
I pull the collar of my shirt to my nose, wiping the wetness from it. His eyes wander across my face while my hands fly up to my wild hair.
I smooth back that one curly flyaway that’s always going rogue and sit up straight in the chair. “We met a while back when I came here with Ri?—”
“I remember.”
“I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’m sorry.”
“Ain’t no reason to apologize. I spend about sixty percent of my day in this bed. I think I’m well rested.”
His soft, gravelly voice soothes the burning in my throat, and I hear Rich in the bluntness of his words.
“What you in here crying for, sweet pea?”
I exhale, and my shoulders drop because “sweet pea” sounds as comforting as “Slim” does.
I open my mouth and my brain tries to make sense of the jumble of words floating around it—all the ones about Rich and love and women and the men who hold the missing pieces to our broken selves.
“I’m…I’m trying to get home,” I croak. “I’ve been trying to get there since Sunday, but…”
“But what?”
“But there’s something stopping me from getting there.”
“And you think I can help with that?”
I nod.
He groans softly. “You know I’m too sick and old to be playing the middleman between you and Pup, right?”
My heart beats faster, and I scoot the chair closer to his bed. “He talked to you about me?”
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then opens them back up. He pushes himself up on his trembling forearms and tries to scoot his body over but stops midway.
I reach out to grab him, but he shakes his head when my fingers brush his thin arm.
“Don’t,” he mumbles.
He tries again. The three-inch journey is arduous, but he makes it. By the time he’s satisfied with his new position, I’m as breathless as he is.
He pats the empty spot that’s next to him now. “Go mark that day on the calendar for Pup, then c’mon here. I think me and you need to have a talk.”
I swipe my wet face and get up, and for the first time since I sat at his bedside, my mind isn’t racing with a million thoughts. I take long strides toward the Harley-Davidson calendar and stop in front of it.
November is as bare as October was, with an occasional doctor’s appointment, a visit with a friend here and there, and Thanksgiving, but there’s nothing that stands out. I grab the marker from the console table, uncap it, then draw a line through November third. Drawing the line feels like a false accomplishment because I still haven’t gotten back to Rich.
I put the cap back on the marker and sit it back on the table, then turn around. I stare at the spot Senior made for me, and that rush of tears tries to come back, but I hold them in this time.
“Come on,” he urges. “Come stretch your legs out.”
I toe my shoes off and walk towards the bed, climbing into the spot he designated for me. I lay back, stretching my legs out like he said, and even in his fragile, weakened state, I’m still less than half his size.
