Change of Hart (Wells Ranch, #3)(14)
“Can we be friends again?” he asked in a whisper.
“I don’t know. Can we? Are you allowed to be friends with me?”
I heard the smack of his lips as he opened them in the dark, maybe preparing to give another five seconds of honesty. But before the words found their way off his tongue, the closet door opened and Megan stood with a devilish grin, hoping to catch us making out.
I blinked rapidly to let my eyes adjust before meeting Denny’s own bewildered stare. And when he looked into my eyes—which were likely red and watery—his shoulders sank. I quickly reached to clean up any stray tears or dried salt with my fingertips before turning to face the crowd of partygoers. A catchy pop song played somewhere in the distance and, for a second, everyone stared at us in silence.
“You turned her down so bad you made her cry?” an older jock guy shouted from the other side of the room, clear pride and excitement in his voice.
There’s that nausea again. My mouth was wet and dry all at the same time. I could’ve run away crying, but my brain couldn’t convince my legs to move no matter how hard I tried.
Cass stood, stepping over and around people to get across the room, her eyes never leaving mine.
Then Denny cleared his throat beside me. “No. She turned me down, actually.”
Liar. Though the slack-jawed expression on Megan’s face made both me crying in front of everybody, and Denny lying, totally worth it.
“She turned me down, then got upset because I said something really rude in response—which I didn’t mean to do, by the way,” he said. Catching him staring in my periphery, I turned to meet his apologetic half-smile. “And I’m hoping she forgives me for being a jerk.”
“I accept the apology, blue cheese.”
Blair
Strolling into the kitchen, I spot Mom in the family room watching Wheel of Fortune, as always. Sitting on the old leather sofa, her silvery-brown hair atop her head in a messy bun. When she first got her Alzheimer’s diagnosis, she kept a brave face. Now she’s firmly in stage four out of seven for the disease, with no way of knowing how long before she forgets everything and needs 24/7 care. Whether it was the door alarms, the medic-alert bracelet, her eldest daughter moving home to care for her, or a combination of factors that made her depressed, we can’t be sure. But the hopeful smile is gone.
“Morning, sweetie,” Dad says, pouring himself a cup of coffee on his way out the door.
“Morning.” I grab Mom’s pill sorter and the mug of tea Dad has set out on the counter as I stroll past. The mug clunks onto a marble coaster, and I pop open the lid labeled Tuesday a.m., dumping the pills into Mom’s open palm.
“Hey, I was thinking maybe we could go get a manicure after your doctor’s appointment in Sheridan next week? I desperately need one.”
Refusing to break her gaze from Vanna White’s demonstration of a white hybrid sedan, she shrugs one shoulder as she swallows the colored assortment of pills. “Sure.”
“Perfect. Let me do your hair for you before I head out to Cassidy’s house to babysit, okay?”
She nods once and I head for the bathroom to grab supplies. Then spend a solid ten minutes teasing away every knot, dampening the strands with a light mist of water, and pulling her hair into a secure bun. It’s not that she isn’t physically capable of brushing her own hair—she simply doesn’t care. And her depression is making things harder on Dad, who’s been busting his ass to keep her safe and happy since the diagnosis. He installed the door alarms and cameras, spent hours googling medication options to ask the doctor about, and insisted I didn’t need to move back in with them. And, for a brief second, I considered staying in the city; I loved my gorgeous apartment, my wonderful roommate, and my well-paid career at the Women’s Hospital. But the relief in Dad’s eyes when I pulled into the driveway with all my belongings made it clear this was the right choice. The only choice.
Seeing me grab my purse and sunglasses from the dining table, Mom asks with a warm smile, “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to help Cass out, remember?”
Crap. I knew as soon as the word slipped out that asking her if she remembered was stupid. The first bit of expression I’ve seen in her today disappears, eyes falling to my feet. “Right. Right, yes, of course.”
“Dad’s going to be home around lunchtime. Love you.”
I double-check the oven lock, straighten the large sheet of neon yellow paper with my phone number on the fridge, and lock the front door behind me. The alarm alerts my phone on the walk to the car, and I send Dad a text to let him know I’m heading out. So many little steps which often feel entirely unnecessary when Mom’s having a good day. But sometimes she leaves the house without knowing where she’s going. Or she turns the stove on and forgets about it. Or she asks me questions about things that happened a decade ago. Those days—where she doesn’t quite feel like my mom anymore—are the hardest.
* * *
—
I squint up at the worn Wells Ranch sign hanging over the driveway. Once flanked by overgrown lilac bushes, the entrance is more clean-cut now, with manicured grass and tidy flowerbeds waiting to be planted.
Pulling into the ranch, I release a small sigh of relief when there are no cowboys in sight. It’s not that I want to avoid Denver, but…I want to avoid Denver. Cassidy’s on the front porch of the big house—the sprawling white farmhouse the Wells brothers grew up in, which is now where Jackson, his wife Kate, and their kids live.