Then he stated, “So many damned pills.”

“I can imagine but you need to keep your strength up,” I advised.

“For what?” he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.

“To fight,” I answered, again gently.

He continued to hold my eyes then his moved to the TV.

Damn.

I gave up, hit the kitchen, did an inventory, found a piece of paper to make a list and headed out, stopping to lean down and kiss Cob’s cheek on my way out.

The good news was, the flurries were holding off so I felt a little better as I drove the five minute drive to the Albertson’s on Alameda.

The bad news was, I was so involved in what I was doing, I was standing in line at the checkout when my phone rang, I yanked it out, saw it said “Slim Calling” and realized I forgot to call him.

Crap.

I engaged it, put it to my ear and said, “Hey honey.”

“Where are you?” was Brock’s terse reply.

“I –”

“I’m standin’ in my livin’ room, you’re not here and you didn’t reply to my text.”

With all the fun I was having cleaning up puke, I must have missed it.

Crap again.

“I’m –”

He cut me off again. “You also didn’t call.”

“Brock, give me a second to speak,” I said softly, pushing my cart toward the conveyor belt and starting to unload.

“So, speak,” Brock ordered.

“I’m at Albertson’s on Alameda,” I told him but got no more out when Brock spoke again.

“Babe, we’re doin’ pizza, remember?” he asked, didn’t give me a chance to answer before he went on to query, “And what the f**k are you doin’ at Albertson’s on Alameda?”

This was a good question considering the fact that for his place or mine I shopped either at Wild Oats or King Soopers, both on Colorado Boulevard.

I kept unloading the cart as I answered, “I’m here because your Dad phoned. He had a treatment today, got sick, didn’t make it to the bathroom and he needed someone to help him out. Jill and Laura are taking him to and from treatments and helping out at his house. Jill had dropped him off and he didn’t want to ask her to do more. I told him awhile ago if he needed to call on me, he could so he called on me.”

This was met with silence.

I had the cart unloaded, I shifted and commandeered the handle, pushing it through as I smiled at the checkout clerk and settled in to watch the bag boy bag my purchases.

When he didn’t speak, I did.

“So I went by his place, got it cleaned up but it still doesn’t smell that good. I’m buying some stuff to help with that then I’m going to make him some dinner, see to it that he eats it and keeps it down and then I’ll be over.” I paused then said, “Do pizza without me, honey.

I’ll eat with Cob.”

Again, silence but this didn’t last as long.

Brock broke it when he said, “Your plans change, the shit goin’ down around us, you f**kin’ phone.”

Then he hung up.

I blinked at the bags.

Then I slid my phone in the side pocket on my purse, a variety of feelings battling it out in my head.

Brock had never hung up on me. Sure, I didn’t call and it was obvious he was worried but it wasn’t like I was currently at one of the biker bars he’d introduced me to, on a bender, standing on the bar and teaching all the bikers in attendance how to dance like Axl Rose (something I had done once while on a mini-bender – that was to say, it lasted a few hours –

while I was with Brock when he was Jake though I didn’t do it on the bar, I did it on the stage while the band was playing Paradise City and Brock was standing just off the dance floor laughing his ass off). I was taking care of his Dad.

It hit me that the surprise at his hanging up on me and fear of his being angry with me were mingled quite liberally with me being somewhat pissed off. Then being pissed off started winning out and I realized I was getting more pissed off. Then I wasn’t scared Brock was angry with me or surprised he’d hung up on me, I was just pissed he’d hung up on me.

I managed to pay, get the stuff to my car and get to Cob’s house without calling Brock back and giving him an earful. I got the stuff in and battled the smell first with air freshener and then with rug shampoo. I didn’t want to overwhelm Cob with a warring combination of intense smells that were worse than just vomit and luckily I managed this feat, the vomit smell was gone, the air freshener evaporated and the shampoo didn’t stink.

I set a soothingly scented candle I bought at Albertson’s to burning in the bedroom, I got Cob an iced lemon-lime and then I set about making dinner.

The chicken noodle soup was warming in the pan and I was setting out bowls on plates with buttered saltine crackers around the edges (what my Mom used to serve when my sister or I got sick) hoping the butter wouldn’t be too rich for Cob when I heard the front door open.

Then I heard Cob surprised greeting of, “Heya Slim.”

I sucked in breath through my nose.

Then I heard Brock ask, “How you feelin’?”

“Better,” Cob answered then offered, “Tess is in the kitchen.”

“Right,” I heard Brock mutter then, “Be back, Dad.”

“Okay, son.”

I grabbed the spoon, started to stir the soup and braced.

I felt his mood hit the room before I saw him do it. It wasn’t sparking and pissed off, it wasn’t abrasive and angry. It was something I’d never felt before. Something heavy.

Weighted. Soft but not warm. And when I saw him, that heavy look was in his eyes, the soft on his face.

He stopped by the stove but not too close.

Then he held my eyes and said, “Hey.”

“Hey,” I replied.

He studied me.

Then he noted quietly, “You’re pissed.”

“I don’t like to get hung up on anytime but especially not when I’m buying carpet cleaner to eradicate puke smells,” I returned also quietly.

He continued to hold my eyes.

Then he nodded once and murmured, “Right.”

“I’ve got this, you didn’t need to come,” I told him, still quiet so Cob wouldn’t hear.

“He’s my Dad, Tess,” Brock replied.

I tipped my head to the side and asked, “He is?”