I returned a minute later and watched her patch herself up at the table, with the toughness of an Army nurse on a Civil War battlefield.
“I want you to leave him,” I told her.
“Easier said than done, kid,” she said with an apologetic frown.
“I’ll help you. Tell me what it’s going to take, and I’ll do it,” I said.
She cupped my face in her free hand. “I wish you could, Wyatt. I wish you could.”
A month later, I helped the only way that I could.
I didn’t have a choice.
I did what I had to do to keep my mother safe.
While I don’t regret the choice I made, it haunts me every day, whispering in my ear at night, reminding me that I’m capable of being just as heartless as my old man.
Even if Oliver sold Mama the ranch, and I could be with Blaire again, I stand by what I’ve always said … she deserves more than I can offer her.
She deserves a man with a heart.
She deserves a man free from the kind of secrets you only take to the grave.
19
Blaire
* * *
My father rests in his hospital bed Wednesday night, sleeping soundly despite the constant beeping of his heart rate monitor and blood pressure cuff. His doctors believe he’s having blood pressure spikes that are causing him to black out. They’re running a gamut of tests to pinpoint the root of the issue. For now, they’re keeping him under observation.
Odette’s been pacing the hall outside his room for hours, calling everyone she knows like he’s on his deathbed. But all things considered, he’s in good spirits. He was cracking jokes when I walked in. He watched a bit of news, ate all of his dinner, and shot the breeze with each and every nurse who came in to check on him.
I cross my legs, settle back in the corner chair, and text Giada to let her know I’ll be staying longer. After Venmo’ing her my share of next month’s rent, I text my boss at the restaurant as well as my agent.
Outside the door, the nurses chat at their station about the upcoming Whiskey Moon festival. This year it falls on the same weekend as my ten-year high school reunion. I wasn’t planning on attending either, but as long as my father’s doing well and I’m still in town, I might as well go.
I darken my phone screen and watch my father sleep.
Ten years ago, I made a wish under the marble Whiskey Moon—and that wish was to marry Wyatt someday. I could’ve wished for stardom or a fruitful acting career or a million dollars … but all I wanted was to be with him. Later that night, when Wyatt proposed that marriage pact, I took it as a sign that my wish was heard and the universe was putting it into action already.
What a cruel joke that turned out to be.
Still, all this time later, I’d kill to know what Wyatt wished for that night.
“How’s he doing?” Odette asks when she finally returns. Her arms are crossed against her lithe body and dark circles frame her lower eyes like two midnight plums.
“Excuse me, ladies, but visiting hours are over in about five minutes,” a young nurse with a sugar-soft voice tells us.
My father stirs awake just in time for us to tell him goodnight and that we’ll see him in the morning.
We head to the parking lot, which is half-empty now. A half-moon lights our way home and road noise serves as a replacement for conversation. Odette leans her head against the glass of the passenger window, closing her eyes and mumbling what I can only presume is a prayer.
“He’s going to be okay,” I tell her, just like I told her earlier today.
Sitting up, she dabs a tear from the corner of her eye and sucks in a ragged breath.
“He’s such a good man.” She fights back a sob. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
I debate whether or not I should reach for her hand or comfort her, but we’ve never had a touchy-feely relationship in the twenty-three years we’ve known each other. It wouldn’t be natural.
“He’s been so good to me, Blaire,” she says. “All he’s ever done is take care of us. Who’s going to take care of us if he’s gone?”
My father has always been a shrewd saver. With various investment accounts and insurance policies and assets, Odette would be set for life in the event of his death. She’d be more than capable of taking care of herself.
“We’ll take care of ourselves,” I tell her. “But he’s not going to leave us. He’s not dying. He just has a condition. It’s going to be fine, Odette …”
She pulls in a quick breath and drops her hands in her lap, prim and proper, shutting her emotions off like the flip of a switch.