"I guess so," he says gruffly. "Not much point in staying here."
I look to where Livvie stands a few feet from us. "Go ahead," she says quietly. "I'll get the bill. You buy next time," she says when she sees me begin to protest.
"Thank you," I mouth. I wind my arm through Mr. Miller's and hope he doesn't realize I'm providing him with support in case he can't walk. To cover up what I'm doing, I look up at him and ask if he still has that old collection of baseball cards.
"Sure do," he says. "Wouldn't sell those things for the world."
I ask him which one is his favorite. He talks about the card, how he got it, and what he paid for it. This conversation gets us all the way out of the place and into my mom's car.
"Does Owen know you're back?" he asks as I start the engine.
"Yes, Mr. Miller. He's my mom's doctor."
They must not talk much, and that hurts my heart. I had no idea. Mr. Miller was always an unemotional man, but he and Owen had a decent relationship.
"Call me Mike, Autumn. Feels weird to be called Mr. Miller." He coughs and adjusts his seat. "I'm sorry to hear your mom is sick."
"Yeah, me too. Thanks."
Mike reaches around behind himself, struggling, then his arm reappears with a silver flask. He unscrews the top and tips it to his lips, then offers it to me.
"No thank you," I tell him, trying to keep the surprise from my voice. I can't remember ever seeing him have more than a couple beers the entire time I was dating Owen. What happened?
"Do you still live on Liberation Lane?" I ask.
"Yep. I guess not much has changed since you left," he laughs as he says it.
I smile, aware of how wrong he is. "Guess not," I say.
By the time I turn onto his street, he is slumped against the passenger door, passed out. His head is tipped back, soft snores falling from his open mouth.
Well,shit…
How am I supposed to carry an unconscious grown man inside?
Chapter 9
Owen
My fingers curlaround the cold beer bottle. For hours I've been looking forward to opening my new science fiction book, sitting back in my favorite chair, and drinking a cold beer. It's my preferred way to unwind from a long day at the hospital when I find it difficult to settle down my brain. Going into a fantasy world is my favorite form of escapism.
I sink into the chair and put my feet up on the matching ottoman. I paid an obscene amount of money for this chair, but it's already paid for itself in the amount of relaxation it brings me.
I'm one paragraph into my book and two sips into my beer when my phone rings. My gaze flicks across the room and I stare at the device on the coffee table. I'd love to ignore it, but I can't. It could be the hospital. Or my dad. In either scenario, my help may be needed.
With a deep, irritated sigh, I close my book and set it on the small table beside my chair. My beer comes with me and I can feel the frown on my face.
I have a sixth sense for bad news. Comes with being a cancer doctor. And this call feels like bad news.
Grabbing my phone, I see the name flashing across the front, and my frown deepens.
"Autumn?"
"Hey," she responds. Her voice is uncertain.
"Is everything okay?" Something must be wrong. She wouldn't call me for any other reason. The last time I saw her she stood at Faith's kitchen sink, her anger apparent.
"Um, no. Not really … I need your help." She sounds reluctant, but presses forward anyway. "Your dad is passed out in my car and I can't wake him up. And I certainly can't carry him into his house alone."
