Page 47 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

T he bathwater hasn’t even cooled before I’m up again, standing in the middle of my bedroom, wrapped in a towel that’s already sticking to my skin. The steam still lingers, curling around my ankles like a ghost I didn’t invite, and for a second, it tricks me into thinking I might still feel okay.

I don’t.

The second I breathe, the dread comes back, like a second set of lungs lodged behind my ribs.

I pull a T-shirt over my damp skin, run a hand through my wet hair, and stare at nothing for a beat too long.

So much for the peaceful night I promised myself.

Wes even stopped by earlier with snacks in one hand and a bath bomb in the other, that smug smile on his face as if he could personally fix my entire emotional state with chocolate and some Epsom salts.

I’d almost cried. Didn’t, though. I promised him I’d try. Take the night. Reset. Just exist without holding everything up for once.

But my head won’t shut up. I’m too worried about Grandpa.

Now I’m curled up on the couch, hair damp against my neck, and wrapped in a throw blanket that’s about as useful as a paper napkin.

Some reality show flickers on the screen, but I couldn’t tell you what it is.

My phone sits beside me, face-up like a dare.

I already called the nursing home twice tonight.

I’m trying really, really hard not to do it again.

They’d call me if something changed. I know that.

But I’ve lived the “something changed.” I know how fast stable turns to holy shit. I know what it’s like to blink and lose a person.

I cave at ten o’clock and dial the number with fingers that won’t stop trembling.

A nurse I don’t recognize answers. “He’s resting,” she tells me. “We started antibiotics for a minor infection. He’s doing okay. Really.”

I thank her and hang up. Then I stare at the phone like it’s supposed to fix the pit in my stomach.

He used to hoist me up onto his shoulders like I was weightless. Now he naps too long, and his skin is so thin it bruises if you look at it sideways.

Eventually, I abandon the couch and crawl into bed, dragging the blanket up to my chin like it can hold me together. The quiet is worse in here. Louder, somehow. Meaner.

I shift. Flip the pillow. Try the other side. Still nothing.

I reach for my phone on instinct, thumb hovering over Wes’s name. I shouldn’t. He’s probably asleep. It’s selfish.

But my finger moves anyway, pressing the call button before I can think better of it.

The line rings once. Then twice .

I’m already pulling the phone away to hang up when I hear his voice.

“Lena?” His voice is thick with sleep but alert, like he was ready the second he saw my name.

I blink fast, my mouth suddenly dry. “Hey. Sorry. I—um. Grandpa’s on antibiotics. The nurse said he’s okay, just resting, but…” I trail off. There’s nothing else to say.

For once in my life, I have nothing to say.

A pause stretches between us.

“I’m sorry. I just—” I clear my throat. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

There’s a silence on the other end. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just present.

Needing someone is new to me. Having him be the first person I think to call when everything feels like it might be falling apart is both terrifying and comforting, like handing someone the blueprint to all your broken parts and praying they know how to hold them.

I try to laugh off any awkwardness I’ve created. “God, that’s cheesy. Kill me, Wes.”

No reply.

Then, softly, “Hey, baby?”

The word clutches something low in my gut.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to need you to take a deep breath for me.”

I do. It stutters a little, but I manage it.

After a beat, I exhale. “Sorry for calling. I know it’s late and—”

“You don’t have to explain. You don’t even have to talk if you don’t want to. Stay on the line,” he says. “I’m here.”

Just that.

I’m here.

Somehow, those two words undo me. The tears come silently this time, hot tracks down my cheeks as I lie back down with the phone pressed to my ear.

He stays quiet, just breathing with me. No rushing. No fixing. Just being there.

“Goodnight, Turner,” I whisper.

“Goodnight, Carter.”

I fall asleep like that with the phone to my cheek and my heart wide open.

Until it rings again at 3:42 a.m.

My body knows before my brain does.

I don’t even look at the caller ID.

“Lena?” It’s Doris this time, and she’s too quiet.

I want to scream.

“I’m sorry to wake you, honey,” she says. “But your grandfather’s taken a turn.”

A turn?

The words knock the breath from me.

“How bad?”

She hesitates, and I hate that most of all. That pause always comes before the real blow. “You should come,” she says softly. “And you might want to let your family know.”

I’m out of bed in seconds, flinging back the covers. Jeans. Hoodie. Shoes. I grab my phone again and send a text to the group chat I have with my siblings.

Me: Grandpa’s not doing good. You should all come. Love you.

I’m moving on autopilot. Bag. Phone. Keys. I hit the front door before the tears start.

I whisper prayers I haven’t said in years.

Just let him hang on.

Let me see him .

Let me tell him I love him one more time.

Don’t you dare leave me now, old man.

Not tonight.

Not like this.

Just hold on.

Your baby girl is on her way.