Page 142 of By A Thread

His hands continued to follow the song on top of the worn blue and brown patches.

“I think I’d like to play piano tomorrow,” he said softly.

“You can absolutely play tomorrow,” the nurse promised him, brushing a wisp of hair off his forehead.

But promises didn’t mean much these days.

* * *

I satwith him for another hour to make sure his sleep was sound.

While he snored softly, I put down the ice pack that Braden gave me and pulled out my phone.

The urge to call Dominic was overwhelming and disconcerting. It made no sense. He didn’t know about my father. We weren’t together in any sense of the word. But just thinking about hearing his voice pushed the urge into compulsion territory.

Biting my lip, I debated for another minute before settling on a text.

Me: Hey. Do you want me to pick up breakfast for you on the way into work?

I hit send and immediately felt like an idiot. He was my boss. Not my boyfriend.

My heart gave a kick when his response lit up my screen.

Charming: That depends. Can you spell ‘fuck off’ with danishes?

The smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, and my chest felt a little looser.

Me: You’d be amazed at what I can spell with breakfast foods.

Charming: Your talents know no bounds. But I already have our breakfast planned. Just bring your annoying self.

Me: Okay. Hugs to Brownie.

He responded with a photo of Brownie sprawled across his legs on the couch. Dominic was wearing sweatpants, and there was a fire in the fireplace. It looked so cozy. So safe. I had to swallow around the lump in my throat. There was no cozy and safe for me. Just a long walk home on a winter night.

I left the ice pack at the empty front desk and headed for the front doors with Dad’s laundry in a bag.

It was bitterly cold and almost midnight. Fat clouds blotted out the night sky.

The doors closed behind me, cutting me off from the warmth, and I took a deep breath of lung-shocking cold.

“Yo, Ally.”

Braden was leaning against a sedan in the parking lot. He held up a bottle.

I hunched my shoulders against the cold and shuffled over.

“We keep this in the locker room for after tough shifts,” he said, pouring a shot of Fireball into a little Dixie cup.

“I will accept this emergency Fireball,” I told him.

“That was tough in there.”

“Yeah.” It came out as a gasp. The yummy burn in my throat was an improvement over the choking sensation of six months of suppressed tears lodged in there. “He thought I was my mom, his ex-wife… or wife.”

“I noticed she’s never come to see him,” Braden said in that nice, non-pushy way of his.

“She left us about a hundred years ago. It’s always been just him and me.”