“Thanks. I know this is hard for you.”
What kind of person did she take him for if she honestly believed he’d say no? Oh, the kind of guy who got arrested and hadn’t been there for her like he’d said he’d be.
Now came the words he longed to say for so long, and couldn’t stop saying. Making up for the bad years might take a lifetime. “I love you, girl.”
“Love you too, Rich. I’ve missed you more than you’ll ever know.”
He’d barely ended the call when her e-mail arrived, giving instructions for his doctors.
***
After being poked, prodded, needle-stuck about a dozen times and every test possible run on him, Lucky stumbled out of the doctor’s office in a daze. First hurdle cleared. He and Dad both had A- blood, and were roughly the same size, or rather, were now after Dad’s illness cost him some pounds. He’d always been a stocky-built guy, mostly muscles from honest days’ work.
People back home used to call Lucky “Junior” because he looked so much like his old man.
Umpteen years ago.
Lucky spent time in the gym and working out at home for what used to come naturally. What did his dad look like now? He’d never had guts enough to ask Charlotte for a picture, and she’d never offered.
Bo staggered out of the door and into the parking lot, running his fingers repeatedly through the hair sticking up every which way. At some point, he must’ve taken off his shirt, for now a few buttons were mismatched to the wrong buttonholes. “Sorry, Lucky, but my medical history puts me out of the running as an organ donor. I’d never pass the psych test anyway.”
Psych test? “You can’t know that.” Lucky’s stomach gave a lurch. Because he might be able to donate, or because he mightnotbe able? And no denying he breathed easier knowing Bo wouldn’t have to endure surgery and the accompanying risks.
“I’m still in therapy for PTSD and substance abuse.” Bo yanked at the shirt hanging unevenly on his body “It’s been less than a year since my overdose.” He frowned down at his shirt and corrected the buttoning.
“I’m in therapy too!” Hopefully, Lucky unloading his mind on a therapist once a week wouldn’t hold him back. “Hell, half of Atlanta is probably going to some kind of head doctor.” Or should, judging by the lunatics Lucky avoided on the roads every day.
Bo sighed. “Not because of drug addiction. And I’m doing better with the emotional outbursts, but I’m not exactly the most stable person around.”
“Not your fault.” Lucky would gladly accept life in prison to bring Stephan back and kill him in the most gruesome and painful manner possible. He slid behind his Camaro’s steering wheel while Bo took the passenger seat.
Lucky’s stomach rumbled. Time for food, and soon.
***
“Lucky? What are you doing?”
“What? Huh?” The tailgate smack dab in front of his car needed painting.
“What’re we doing at a burger joint?”
The truck inched forward and the menu and speaker came into view. Pre-Mr. Healthy coming into his life, Lucky regularly drowned his sorrows in greasy burgers and salt-laden French fries. Now he munched grilled mushrooms and salads, saving burger fixes for special occasions, or when Bo wasn’t around.
“I’m sorry. I kinda zoned out there for a minute. Maybe the car remembered the way.” Yeah. Good story.
“May I take your order, please?” a voice crackled from the speaker.
Lucky shot Bo his best hopeful expression. Warm burger, grease dripping down his chin, a smear of ketchup to lick off his lips. His stomach rumbled agreement. Comfort food. He needed comfort food.
“I’ll have a house salad, no meat, vinaigrette dressing,” Bo mumbled.
A test. This had to be a test. Lucky didn’t dare order what he truly wanted and get away without a lecture.
Bo placed his hand over Lucky’s. “Look, you’ve got a lot on your mind and you’ve had a hard day. One splurge isn’t likely to kill you.”
Really? “I’ll have a triple burger, extra pickles, large fries, peach milk shake.” He side-eyed Bo. “And apple pie.” Bo raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything. Okay. Relationships thrived on compromise, or so he’d read on the cover of a magazine he’d flipped through in the grocery store checkout line to avoid talking to the chatterbox behind him. “Hold the onions on the burger? Oh, and a sweet tea. The bigger the better.”
There. Compromise. He hadn’t gottenallhe wanted.
