Racer and Tucker exchange glances and at the same time, hold up a Little Debbie snack to me. I don’t have to acknowledge them. I take both snacks and plop them in my mouth.
After that, we don’t talk, instead we get hammered. Shot after shot we down, chasing each one with a Little Debbie snack. Before we know it, we’re hanging on to the bar counter floating around in a sugar and alcohol coma, just the way I like it.
“There’s my girl,” Racer shouts as he topples off his stool and onto the floor, laughing hysterically. Georgie stops in her tracks and looks over at Emma, who’s standing next to her, both holding two boxes of Little Debbie snacks each.
“Emmmmmmmma,” Tucker drags out, waving his glass in the air. “You brought the snacks.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Emma mutters as she approaches us.
I point to my mouth and say, “Feed me. Daddy needs sugar.”
Racer is beside me, tangled in the pegs of his bar stool, still laughing. “Did you bring Oatmeal Pies, George? Please tell me you have the pies.”
“Uh, I think you’ve had enough for tonight,” she says, looking down at her boyfriend.
“Never!” Racer struggles to get up and finally knocks the chair over to free himself. “Fucking bitch chair, digging into me with its claws.” Talking to the stool directly he says, “I’m taken, warm someone else’s ass.”
“He’s going to propose, chair, leave him alone,” Tucker announces, causing me to cringe.
“Dude, don’t say it out loud.” I punch Tucker in the shoulder. “Georgie is right there.” All three of us turn to Georgie, who’s shaking her head in humor. Hopefully.
“I’ll take Aaron,” Emma tells Georgie. “Seems like Racer is more of a handful.”
“Hell yeah, I am.” Racer stumbles while cupping his crotch. “A giant handful.”
Georgie rolls her eyes. “And that’s our cue to leave.”
“But we didn’t eat our snacks.”
“Seems like you had enough.” Georgie grabs Racer by the hand. “Come on.”
As they walk away, Racer asks, “Want to have sex in the car?”
“Not even a little.”
“Here, you two, you can have your boxes of snacks.” Emma hands Tucker and me both a box of Oatmeal Pies that we clutch to our chests.
“You’re the best,” I admit.
“She is, isn’t she?” Tucker says. “I love her so fucking hard. Best wife ever.”
She pulls on both of our hands to get us moving. “She wins wife of the year award,” I announce. “Best wife goes to Emma. Can we get a round of applause?”
Tucker breaks open his Oatmeal Pies and starts spraying them like confetti. “Emma. Emma. Emma.” He chants, getting the three other patrons in the bar to join in.
I pump my fist as well, forgetting everything from earlier. I knew I could count on my guys.
“Emma. Emma. Emma . . .”
And then, everything fades to black. Emotions and feelings are non-existent as I pass out, just the way I like it. Just the way I need it.
Chapter Five
AMELIA
“Hello, I’m here to see Marvin Santos. I’m his daughter, Amelia.”
“Amelia.” The receptionist at the nursing home brightens. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Darra; we’ve shared many conversations on the phone.”
“Darra, it’s nice to finally put a face to the name. Thank you so much for all the help over the last few months. I really appreciate it.”
She waves me off. “Oh, anytime. Your father is such a dear. The entire staff was so upset when he had his fall.” Somberly she adds, “He just hasn’t been the same since.” That’s what I was afraid of. “But now that you’re here, maybe he’ll brighten up again.” She picks up her phone and says, “Let me call Heather. She can give you a mini tour then take you to see your dad.”
“Sounds great, thank you.”
I take a seat in the reception area and place the little bag of Dunkin’ Donuts for my father on the chair next to me. I pull out my phone and instantly feel disappointed when I don’t see a text from Trey. I told him last night about seeing my father today, so I was hoping he would text me some support. I know he’s busy, so I can’t hold it against him. I send him a quick text.
Amelia: About to see my dad. I’m a little nervous. Wish me luck.
I tuck my phone back in my purse and bring my cup of coffee to my mouth, reveling in the heat emitting from the little hole at the top. I need this coffee more than ever today, not just because of seeing my dad, but because I feel emotionally drained.
Aaron Walters.
Why? Why does he have to magically appear in my life? Moving back to Binghamton, I thought about the possibility of maybe running into him, but I thought it unlikely, something that would never really happen.
Boy, was I wrong.
What a sick joke life is playing on me.
Aaron Walters, the boy who broke me into pieces is my neighbor.
I can’t fathom the impact I feel already.
Seeing him in hip-hugging jeans and a tight, plain shirt did a number on me. It kept me up all night as memories of what we used to have flooded my mind.
His voice.
His stature.
The way he used to kiss my neck.
The way I felt so protected in his arms.
Too bad his arms couldn’t protect me from his devastating, heart-breaking self.
And hell, he looked good. Too good.
He’s always been tall with handsome features and a chiseled jaw, but now he’s bulked up to the point that I could see his abs flexing under his shirt, the same shirt that stretched over his biceps.
But it wasn’t his muscles or handsome features that once again made my heart ache, it was those eyes. So bright, so blue, so kind, but still so sad. It reminded me of the first day I met him, of the day he stole my heart from every other man on the market.
Broken, unsure, yet yearning for love. It was all there, and like experiencing a moment of déjà vu, I was transported back into a time when I felt invincible, like I could conquer anything with him at my side.
Once again, I was wrong.
“Amelia?” a voice asks. I look up to find a petite, kind-looking woman approach me, wearing mauve scrubs and white nurse shoes.
“Heather?” I ask as I stand, snagging my belongings.
“Yes. It’s nice to meet you.” She extends her hand to me. “Your father is a favorite around here.”
“That’s great to hear. He’s a favorite in my book as well.”
For the next few minutes, Heather takes me around the nursing home, introducing me to some of the other nurses as well as residents. Unfortunately, when my father switched nursing homes, I wasn’t here to help him. My sister aided in his transfer, so this is the first time I’m seeing it. The guilt I’ve been harboring eases slightly knowing he’s staying in such a lovely place.
My parents had my sister, Beth, at a very young age, so she’s actually twenty years older than I am. I was an oopsie in their late forties, an oopsie that rocked their world, but needless to say, they raised me as if they were in their twenties, never once skipping out on anything in my childhood. My mom passed away six years ago from breast cancer, and my dad hasn’t been the same since.
“Your father is on the third floor and has a great view of the river. He spends many hours looking out his window.”