Page 7 of Ebbing Tides (The Lighthouse Duology #2)

Her voice was soft, so damn gentle, and I knew—God, I knew —she had heard every single word Charlie said. Of course she had.

She cleared her throat. “So, tomorrow?”

Slowly, my truck rolled forward as the gate was pulled open. “Yeah. Looks like it.”

“Okay. Text me the time, and I'll be at Dad's.”

I narrowed my eyes with skepticism. That was it? That was all she was going to say?

I bit my lip, stunned and cautiously grateful. “Okay,” I said, my voice raspy against a throat so dry. “Thanks.”

A small, acknowledging noise came through the phone. I imagined her smiling. I imagined her eyes sparkling with intuition and understanding. But she didn't dig into me, and after a moment, I found that I loved her for it.

“Drive safe,” she said. “I'll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, later,” I replied, the side of my mouth lifting in a half smile.

Then she hung up, and I imagined her running to tell my brother-in-law—my closest friend and brother in arms—all she knew about my first date in over fifteen years.

***

I didn't sleep.

I couldn't.

Every attempt to doze off had been thwarted by a thought. A violent, creeping reminder of all I had lost ten years ago.

The tragedy I might not have caused, but I'd allowed with my own damn negligence.

Laura’s cold, lifeless body lying in the freshly fallen snow.

Our baby left to die inside her. Her daughters—my stepdaughters—left to live the rest of their lives without their mother and me.

All due to a string of moments, little pieces of innocent forgetfulness and carelessness, that had left all of our lives in shambles.

Melanie—Charlie’s sister-in-law—liked me, or at the very least, she’d seen something in me to like . To trust . She'd put her husband’s treasured belongings in my hands for safekeeping—and after only a few minutes of knowing me, for fuck's sake.

What the hell would she think of me when— if —she found out about my past and all the shit I'd packed into my forty-eight years of miserable existence?

I spent hours combatting with my wounded mind. Three hours of tossing and turning on my father's couch, allowing my mind to travel down dark, narrow, dusty hallways I'd promised to never travel down again. And why? Because I had foolishly agreed to help a friend?

I groaned through my frustration, laying my hands over my face. Lido responded from the floor beside me, lifting his head to rest his snout against the couch cushion, his wet nose bumping against my arm.

“Sorry, buddy,” I muttered. “Go back to sleep.”

He answered by dropping his head back to the floor and sighing, long and irritated. I understood. I understood completely when all I could think about was the long night ahead of me and how very little sleep I'd gotten.

Maybe I should call Sid , I thought as Dad's nurse hurried through the living room toward the kitchen.

When she saw me sit up abruptly, she gasped, clasping her hand to her chest. “Oh! I’m so sorry. Did I wake you up?”

I pushed my hand over my cropped hair and rubbed my neck. “No, you didn’t.”

“Can't sleep?”

I dropped my hand to rest my elbows on my thighs as I turned to her with a nod. “Got a lot on my mind.”

Dad didn't have just one nurse assigned to him. There was a team at the hospice organization that rotated in shifts.

Tuesday and Thursday, there was Marcella, a matronly woman who was far too kind to have to put up with Dad's bullshit.

Saturday and Sunday, there was Robert, and I felt sorry that he had to spend his weekends wiping my father's ass instead of doing something most other young guys his age should be doing. Fun stuff. Stuff I hadn't been allowed to do until I was well into my thirties.

But today, there was Felicity.

She came every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and she was my favorite.

And maybe that was because she reminded me a little of Lizzie Copeland—the friend I'd lost in the Army, not the daughter I'd lost later on—or maybe it was because she seemed to be the closest to me in age.

But whatever it was, I liked her, and over the months since my father had come home, we'd grown to be friends of sorts.

The kind of friendship you could only hope to develop with someone you had to see multiple times a week for the better part of a year.

“You know, your dad has some pretty good stuff in there that'll help you sleep,” she said with a smirk and wink. “Knock you right out.”

I smiled. “Tempting.”

The joke fell flat with my dry tone, and the smile fell from my face when I realized just how truly tempting it really was.

God, what I would give for a drink. Dabbling in a few controlled substances didn't seem too shabby either, and for the first time in years, I worried I wouldn't be able to control myself.

“Everything okay, Max?” Felicity asked, now concerned.

I scratched anxiously behind my ear and reached absent-mindedly for Lido's head. Instinctively, he met me halfway.

“I don't know,” I admitted, thankful to have someone in my life I felt I could be truly honest with.

As appreciative as I was for my relationship with my sisters, I knew I also—shamefully—kept them at arm's length sometimes, especially in regard to my feelings about our father and the static in my brain.

I didn't want them to feel bad. I didn't want them to worry.

And I definitely didn't want Grace to tattle to her husband—because as much as I loved Sid, having him nagging me was almost worse than the bullshit in my head.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I waved a dismissive hand. “No, it's fine. You were doing something for Dad. Don't let me keep you from—”

“He's asleep,” she interrupted. “I was just going into the kitchen to wash some of his things. It can wait a few minutes.”

She sat in a chair I remembered my father had liked to sit in during holidays when we were all in this house.

My sisters and their families. Laura and the girls.

Me. He'd sit right in that chair and address me with the type of respect I'd always craved my entire life before engaging my wife and stepdaughters in adoring conversation, and now, the thought of never seeing him in that chair again choked me up.

Felicity cocked her head. “What is it?”

I forced a smile. “Just thinking. You're in Dad's chair, and …” I lifted a hand as if to throw the comment away. “Never mind. You're not paid to be my therapist.”

“I don't mind listening.”

“You're not paid to listen either.”

She smoothed her short blonde hair over the crown of her head. “Okay, then I like listening. And, hey, you listen to me, too, so we're even.”

“I can't help that you don't know when to stop talking,” I joked lightheartedly.

She rolled her eyes. “Well, you got me there. But come on. Lay it on me. Might help you sleep to get it out.”

I considered that she had a point there, so I sighed and nodded. “All right,” I conceded. “You know about my wife.”

“Yes,” she replied simply.

“It's been almost ten years since she died.”

Felicity whispered a sigh. “I'm sorry.”

I pursed my lips and chose not to engage in her sympathies.

Not because I didn't appreciate them, but I didn't want it to linger. I didn't want to dwell on what people always seemed to feel. How sorry they always were. God, I got sick of it, and maybe that was why I never spoke of it. They were always so damn sorry, and their sorries did nothing. They didn’t make me feel better, they didn’t erase the past, and they didn’t bring her back.

“Anyway, I think I just agreed to go on my first date since everything happened,” I confessed, keeping my eyes forward on the TV that had been kept off since before Dad got sick.

“You only think so?”

I canted my head with consideration. “My friend … this guy at work … he wants me to take his sister-in-law out for a few hours. For dinner or whatever. He wouldn't call it a date, but it feels like a date.”

“Why? Because you’re a man and she’s a woman?”

“No, it’s not that. It’s … I don’t know how to explain it. It’s just the vibe I get from it, I guess.”

Felicity nodded, taking my words in. “Okay. Well, is it that you don't want it to be a date?”

I lifted my hands in a shrug. “I don't really know. I think I feel conflicted about the whole thing.”

“Because of your wife?”

I swallowed. “I don't know. Maybe.” My palm went back to my hair, scraping over its short length. “I can’t make sense of it. I feel … off .”

Felicity hummed thoughtfully. “Then maybe stop trying to make sense of it.”

My eyes flitted toward hers. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged nonchalantly. “If your friend is saying it isn't a date, then go with that. It isn't a date. Would you think it was a date if he was asking you to hang out with a man for a few hours?”

My brow crumpled. “No …”

“There you go. Problem solved.” She wiped her hands together and stood up. “Think you can sleep now?”

I huffed a low chuckle. “Doubt it. But thanks anyway.”

“Well”—she sucked in a deep breath and began walking back toward the kitchen—“good thing you don't pay me to listen.”

The faucet turned on a moment later, and I lay back down, my hand against Lido's head. I considered what Felicity had said, considered that I was overthinking this entire ordeal too much, and somehow, I managed to fall asleep.

***

Dad wasn't awake to eat dinner the way he normally was, and he was still sleeping when Lucy came by. She looked at me with worried eyes as I hurried around his room, making sure he was situated for me to leave for the night.

“Should we be concerned?” she asked, her voice trembling and her eyes flooding.

I met her gaze before returning my attention to the cup of pills I left out for him, day after day, night after night.

“He's dying, Lucy,” I reminded her bluntly but gently. “His body is tired, so he's going to sleep a lot.”

“He's been dying for months ,” she pointed out with a croak.