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CHAPTER TWO

TANNER

By some miracle, I get the socks on, shuffle my way to the closet, and manage to get into a pair of boots without actually passing out. My reward is a fresh jolt of pain that zaps down my lower spine and makes me yelp like a kicked beagle.

Perfect.

Right on schedule, the doorbell rings with a shrill noise that cuts through my head. Fuck. I’m ready to get this appointment over with.

I open the door to find my little sister standing on the stoop, hands on her hips, blue eyes narrowed, lips pursed in a smirk that says, “I already know you’re about to be a pain in my ass.”

“Look at you,” she says. “Upright and ambulatory. Color me impressed.”

“Barely,” I say, bracing myself against the doorframe. “I’m too old to deal with this shit.”

She’s wearing a white summer dress with cowboy boots, sunglasses perched on her nose, and a look that could bend steel. Her hair is pulled back in a tight braid.

“Stop being dramatic. I brought coffee.” She holds up a giant paper cup from the local place, which smells like heaven and tastes, somehow, even better. I take it from her, trying to mask how much my hands are shaking.

“Milk, no sugar. Just how you like it,” she says, a little too smug.

“Thanks,” I mumble as I shuffle over the threshold. “Don’t suppose you brought whiskey to go with it?”

She rolls her eyes and snatches my house keys from the bowl by the door. “If you’re still in this much pain after the chiropractor, we can talk about bourbon. For now, I’m driving.”

“God help us all,” I mutter.

She ignores me, swinging the keys around her finger as she leads the way down my front walk. My boots scuff over the pavers, and I do my best not to whimper every time my lower back threatens to go on strike.

At the curb sits the birthday present I gave her a few years back. The luxury SUV is crammed with yoga mats, makeup bags, and a pair of designer flip-flops she uses for emergencies.

She pops the passenger door and waits, arms folded, eyebrows raised.

“Need help?” she asks.

“I’m good,” I grunt, even though climbing into the vehicle requires a herculean effort. I grab the handle, swing my left leg up, and instantly regret every decision I’ve ever made.

She watches as I fold myself into the seat like a dislocated action figure. “You want me to buckle you in, too, Grandpa?”

I flip her off, but she’s already climbing in on the driver’s side.

She starts the engine, shifts into drive, and pulls away from my house with zero regard for the speed limit. I grip the armrest and hope my spine doesn’t liquefy.

We roll through the iron gates at the end of my drive and hit the main road. The SUV hums along, air conditioning blasting. I sip my coffee and pretend not to notice the pain screaming down my back.

“You know,” I say, “those octagonal red signs? They’re called stop signs for a reason.”

She gives me a side-eye so sharp it could draw blood. “Says the guy who got pulled over for ‘aggressive rolling’ through three stop signs in a row.”

“That’s called momentum. It’s a physics thing,” I say, trying to get comfortable. The seat is softer than most mattresses, but nothing is soft enough to cushion the dumpster fire that is my lumbar region.

She shakes her head, smirking. “I feel really bad that you hurt your back moving my bed.”

“It isn’t your fault,” I reassure my sister. “It’s your dumbass husband who refused to pay movers,” I grumble under my breath.

“Todd feels bad, too.” Maggie glances over at me.

“I bet.”