Page 27 of The Hometown Heartbreaker

Jackie smiled from ear to ear. “I went to high school with your mom, but moved away after graduation. I just came back a few years ago. Wow, you are the spitting image of her. I was so sorry to hear about her passing.”

I never knew what to say when people told me that. “Thank you.”

“She was a real special lady, your mama. Always made sure everybody felt included.”

A warmth filled my chest. She wasn’t the first person who told me that. So many of her friends and just people who knew her in town shared what a kind, empathetic soul she was. That’s how I remembered her. I forgot how nice it was to talk about her with people who knew her.

I felt Buddy’s energy shift, and my entire body tensed. This was what I was worried about. This was me rubbing salt in his open wound. Had Jackie not realized that yes, Rosie was my mom, but she was Buddy’s daughter?

“I’ll be back soon, behave yourself,” Nurse Jackie gave Buddy one final warning and disappeared, shoes squeaking on the floor, leaving behind the faint ozone of her brisk authority. I waited for Buddy to take his medicine, then make a joke about how the pills were probably sugar, but he just stared at the tiny paper souffle cup until the silence grew awkward again.

I thought about saying sorry, sorry that Jackie had brought up my mom, but I knew he’d just sweep it under the rug like he always did. Instead, I thought the best use of our time would be to talk about next steps. Make a concrete plan.

After taking a deep breath, I suggested, “We should talk about the farm.”

He jerked his head toward the ledgers. “Ain’t much to say. Timber’s all but gone, and the new exit bypasses us, so the produce stand doesn’t get any drive-by or foot traffic.” He said it flat, like reading from a spreadsheet, but I caught the way his left hand twisted the bedsheet, the way his voice clipped off at the ends of sentences.

Shepard Farms had two main sources of income: the Christmas tree farm and our produce stand. If the timber was gone and no one was coming to the stand, that was an issue.

“You could sell,” I offered then instantly regretted it. We’d had this conversation a hundred times, but I’d never been so close to admitting out loud that it might actually be time.

He cut me a glare. “No one’s selling. Place’ll be there long after we’re both in the dirt.” His tone dared me to keep arguing. I didn’t.

The monitors blipped and pinged in a steady, robotic lullaby. I turned away, tracing the paths of tape and tubing along his arm, focusing hard so I wouldn’t have to look at his face.

He softened his tone, maybe catching the tremor in my hands. “Don’t you got better things to do than sit around and listen to an old man complain? I’m not going anywhere, kiddo.”

Except you are. The words swelled in my chest, so dense I thought I’d suffocate.

“Now, put on my shows.” He motioned to the television.

“Your shows?” I turned the channel until it landed on Judge Judy.

He watched the courtroom drama until he let himself drift back into sleep. His jaw slackened, his breaths coming in shallow, watery pulses. The hospital room faded to a cocoon of white noise and filtered sunlight, and I allowed myself one minute—one full minute—to stare at him and mourn the loss that was already happening but hadn’t yet occurred.

I sat with him until the air grew stale and the nerves in my legs started to fizz. Then, quietly, I slipped out and padded down the hall, passing the same nurses’ station and the wall of get-well cards taped above the coffee machine. I didn’t stop walking until I found a patch of sunlight in the main lobby, pressed my forehead to the glass, and closed my eyes.

It didn’t help. The ache just moved from my lungs to my scalp, throbbing behind my temples like a migraine. I tried to summon a shred of gratitude—he was alive, he was still here, wasn’t he—but the panic lurked just under the surface, ready to explode at the smallest provocation.

I checked my phone to see if I’d heard anything back from Uncle Ronnie. I’d left him messages about what was going on, but I had no clue if he’d gotten them. He was on a cruise with Lorenzo, so he didn’t have cell service. My heart sank when I saw that there were no missed calls or texts from him. I let my head fall back against the wall, and tears filled my eyes.

That’s where Gio found me. He’d swapped his button-down for navy blue scrubs, his name badge crooked on the V-neck like a badge of irony. He’d always looked like he belonged in a beer commercial—not a hospital—but the uniform suited him, made him seem more substantial. He tapped the glass next to my head, then offered me a latte, steaming through the lid.

“You look like you could use this,” he said.

I took it. “Thanks. Is it real, or decaf?”

“Double shot, no mercy.” He winked. “How’s Buddy?”

I shrugged, and the motion nearly sloshed the coffee onto my wrist. “He’s Buddy. Insulting the staff, pretending to be immortal, refusing to admit he’s in pain.”

“It’s what old men do,” Gio stated gently. “Want to sit? There’s a bench outside.”

The idea of fresh air was almost as intoxicating as the coffee. We walked into a garden area, onto a little patio decked in drought-resistant succulents and painted benches. The hospital had tried to make the courtyard cheerful, but the only thing standing between us and the parking lot was a three-foot hedge and a few wind-tossed daffodils.

“How’s your residency?” I asked, still having a tough time reconciling Gio Russo, the guy who surfed on top of Calvin Hawkins’ van, Teen Wolf-style being a physician.

Gio rolled his eyes. “They’re trying to kill me, but little do they know I’m immortal,” he teased, then, after a beat, asked, “You want to get a drink after my shift?”