And her husband is an abusive prick, which makes it hard for me to feel any guilt over it. Another text comes through as I’m placing the bacon on a paper towel.
Dallas
I’ll be there at seven tomorrow.
Duke
See you then, darlin’.
By the way, when are you wanting to start roping lessons for the boys? Rosie said you wanted to change it to Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I crack four eggs into the hot grease to fry. I prefer to cook on cast iron. I didn’t realize how much I would enjoy cooking until Dolly moved in with Sam and I was forced to do it.Making me and Pops breakfast every morning has become an easy routine.
Dallas
I don’t think the lessons are a good idea.
I frown at her text. I wonder if it could be a financial issue, considering her card got declined in Walmart when her total was under one hundred dollars.
Maybe if her dickhead of a husband would actually support her, I wouldn’t feel so guilty for flirting with his wife. I debate how to tell her I won’t charge her at all for the lessons without making it sound like a handout, which I know she would refuse.
I could go to her bar every week and tip her the same amount as the lessons cost.
But she might need the money for other things, like shoes and food for her boys.
I finish making breakfast with toast in the toaster before serving it up to Pops. I take the seat beside him, and we both dig in. He only eats one of the eggs and two bites of toast.
“You not hungry?” I ask.
He nibbles on the bacon and shrugs. I can smell the whiskey he must have poured in his coffee when my back was turned.
“Not feeling well,” he says.
He’s clutching the front of his stomach. I narrow my gaze at his hand, wondering what could be wrong.
“Hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s hurting?”
He moves to get off the stool, but his foot must get caught on something because he stumbles and falls to theground. I jump up, immediately dropping down to the floor to help him stand.
“Whoa, all right, you need to slow down. I’m calling Rosie, all right? Come sit in your chair.”
I lead him over to his worn leather recliner in the living room.
“My coffee,” he says, reaching toward the kitchen.
“Yeah, I’ll get it.”
I know all he wants is the liquor in it, but we gave that battle up with him years ago.
He’s a grown man. I’m not going to tell him how much he can or can’t drink.
I hand him the remote before going back to get his coffee cup. I sniff it, and it smells like more whiskey than actual coffee.
I’m tapping on my sister-in-law’s number in my phone to call her as I take him his drink. I would pour it out and get him a new cup, but I already know that would only piss him off.
She answers on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Rosie. Can you come to the house and take a look at Pops? He’s saying he doesn’t feel good. He has a low appetite, and he’s grabbing his stomach. He just fell on the floor trying to stand up.”
