CHAPTER TWENTY

Ellen

It’s been three weeks since my dad had his stroke. I’ve had to take personal leave from my job at the hospital and refer my other clients to another therapist in Minneapolis. He’s home and making progress each day, but the recovery is slow. My days consist of taking him to therapy (speech-language, physical, occupational) and then he takes a long nap because therapy is hard work.

I do music therapy with him in the evenings, and we also use music and certain beats to work on his walking at home. My grandparents have been great about making meals. It’s a fair trade for cleaning up after Bungie at least twice a day. And I know they want to be here. I see the worry in their eyes. This is their son. Things feel out of balance when a grown child needs more assistance than their parents.

It’s like death. Things have a natural order. Children are not supposed to die before their parents.

I message or call Flint at least once a week to check in on my babies. They’ve been good about feeding them and changing their bedding/litter area once a week. And by they, I mean Harry. Flint’s convinced that Harry needs to do it by himself if he ever expects to have a pet of his own. I suppose there’s some logic to that.

After my dad and grandparents are tucked into their beds, I fill the upstairs bathtub with hot water and a bath bomb. It’s not a huge tub, but it’s quiet and all mine for the next hour until I crash for the night. I bring up my bathtub playlist on my phone and set it on the toilet seat before sinking into total bubbly bliss.

“Come to mama …” I moan, closing my eyes, as the hot water soothes every single muscle. Paula Cole sings about “feelin’ love.” For one hour I get to feel carefree. For one hour I get to escape into the fantasies of my mind. For one hour I get to be naked, wet, and feeling sexy.

Even after Alex ended our life together, he still was the star of my fantasies. He may not have been touchy-feely, but the sex was always good—really good. But now I don’t think of my surfer blond ex-husband. The only man I imagine touching me the way I touch myself in the depths of this hot, soapy water is a tall, well-built, dark-haired man who wears the hell out of a suit and does the most magical things with his fingers … his lips … and that fucking wicked tongue.

A soft moan escapes my parted lips before I trap my lower one between my teeth, sliding my middle finger between my thighs. My song cuts out once. I ignore it. Then it cuts out again.

“Nooo …” I grab my towel and wipe my hands before snatching my phone off the toilet seat. Who the hell is interrupting my sacred bath time?

Flint.

He hasn’t called or texted me even once since he left three weeks ago. It’s been me calling or texting him. Does he know I’m touching myself thinking of him?

“Thank you for calling 1-800 TOUCH ME. How can I make your fantasies come true tonight?”

Nothing.

I hold my phone out. We’re still connected.

“Sorry, I must have the wrong number. But since I do, can we think of it as a happy mistake and proceed with you fulfilling my fantasies?”

I grin. “I hate being your mistake, but I’ll deal with it if you think of me as a happy mistake.”

“You’re in a good mood.”

I hum. “Me time. Bath time.”

“Fuck me … why did you have to tell me that?”

I giggle. “Sorry. I’m not wet, naked, and touching myself thinking of a certain man in a suit. I’m covered in dog vomit and a long day’s worth of sweat and grime. Better?”

“Where are you touching yourself?” he asks in a husky voice.

I bite my lips together and blow out a slow breath. This is torture. “To what do I owe the honor of you calling me?”

“Between those sexy legs of yours?”

I squeeze said sexy legs together. “Maybe.”

“Jesus Christ, Elle …”

A heavy pulse grows between my legs, just from his voice. He sounds a little pained and a lot turned on.

“I miss you,” I murmur because no matter how much thoughts of Flint turn me on, I can’t ignore my heart.

“Yeah …” he says with weak defeat.

“Yeah.” I mock, blowing out a short breath of disbelief. “Good to know we both know I miss you.” My heart starts the familiar ache that I’ve tried to ignore since he left.

“What do you want me to say?”

My eyes roll to the ceiling, tears trying to fight their way to the surface. “Nothing. Why did you call?”

“Missing you won’t change anything.”

But it would mean everything.

“Why did you call?”

“I just wanted to see how your dad’s doing? And I wanted to make sure you don’t need anything?”

“He’s doing. One day at a time, he’s doing. As for me, I haven’t had much time to think of my needs. I suppose feeling needed is enough. My dad needs me. Feeling missed is pretty fucking special too, but one out of two ain’t bad.”

“Elle …”

“Don’t. It’s fine. I get it.” I clear my throat. “Lori and Forrest are going to help out with my dad so I can take the train to Minneapolis next week. It’s a day-and-a-half trip. I need to talk with the hospital and figure out what I want to do long term with my clients. Then I’ll drive my car and my babies back here by Thanksgiving.”

“So it’s official? You’re moving?”

“Yes. I refuse to put him into a care facility. He could make a full recovery, but it’s going to take months … maybe even years. He’s my dad…” my voice cracks “…he’s all I have.”

“Let me know when your train arrives. I’ll arrange to have you picked up.”

“You’ll arrange to have me picked up,” I repeat more to myself than to him as I nod slowly. “I’m a big girl, Flint. I am pretty sure I can get myself from the train station to my apartment.”

“Okay.”

Okay. I … I don’t know what to say.

“Goodnight.”

I nod, releasing the tears with one blink.

He ends the call.

“Sleep tight,” I whisper to no one.

*

Thirty-six hours. That’s how long it takes to get from Providence to Minneapolis by train. A little longer than taking a plane—just a little.

It’s bittersweet. For thirty-six hours, someone else has taken care of my dad. For thirty-six hours I’ve felt my heart being pulled apart. If something happens to him, I’m back to where I started three weeks ago. I’m sure Flint would don his cape to save my day again, but I don’t want that. Thirty-six hours gave me plenty of time to find empathy.

What if he cares about me even half as much as I care for him and Harry? If it’s true, then I’m hurting him by moving. I don’t think he will ever show me that much raw honesty and emotion. His heart is guarded—rightfully so.

Missing me won’t change how he feels. Telling me won’t make me stay. It’s selfish of me to expect him to share anything with me. I’m leaving.

I take a cab from the train station to my house. Digging my spare key out of the pocket of my purse, I stick it in the lock, but the door is unlocked. I ease it open and listen.

Harry.

He’s talking to my rats. It’s their dinner time.

I set my purse on the floor. I didn’t bring home any clothes, since everything at my dad’s is stuff I purchased after arriving there.

“Hello?”

“Ellen?” Harry peeks his head out of the bedroom. “Why are you here?”

I smile, walking down the hall. “I live here.” But not for long. My smile falters as I meet Flint’s gaze. He’s leaning against the wall—in my rats’ room. It’s … unexpected.

“Hi,” I whisper, feeling all sorts of emotions collide in my heart—pain being the strongest.

“Hey.” He smiles. It’s distant, forced, and gut-wrenching.

“I should have brought my guitar.”

I draw in a shaky breath to even out my emotions as I pick up Lady Gaga. “Hi, baby.” I kiss her. “We’ll play sometime before I leave.”

“You’re leaving again?”

My gaze shifts from Harry to Flint. I assumed he told him. I was wrong.

Flint remains expressionless.

“Yes.” I return my attention to Harry. “You know my dad had a stroke?”

Harry nods. “He didn’t die.”

“No. But it’s going to take him a long time to fully heal, and I’m really the only family he has. His parents are still alive, but they’re too old to give him the care he needs.”

“Will you be back before Christmas? I asked my grandparents to get me rats for Christmas. I want to see if my rats and your rats play well together.”

I look at Flint. His brow tenses.

“I’m moving to Cape Cod, Harry. It’s not temporary. At least not like a few months.”

“But you’re coming back eventually, right? I think my dad is getting tired of driving me here to take care of your rats. Maybe we should move them to our house until you move back here.”

Of course Flint’s tired of dealing with my rats.

I smile at Harry. “I’m actually taking them with me.”