Page 48 of If Love Had A Manual (Skeptically In Love #2)

N o one responds to the group chat. It’s too late, or too early, depending on how you look at it, so I start dialing.

Eli picks up after three rings, voice hoarse and sleep-heavy. It vanishes the second I say Grandpa’s name.

“I’ll wake Theo,” he says. “We’ll call Tess. Just get there, Lena. Love you, sis.”

I close my eyes, then nod like he can see it. “Love you too.”

I need to call my father. I don’t fucking want to, but I have to.

He needs to know because he needs to be there for Tess when she gets the news.

Grandpa and Dad haven’t been in sync since Mom died. Maybe not before that, either.

None of that matters right now. The people who need to be there should be there, even if it’s complicated.

He answers on the first ring, but his voice is clipped and tight in a way that makes me want to cry harder.

“It’s Grandpa,” I tell him, and that’s all I say because nothing else will come out.

Two words, but they land like a bomb.

The silence that follows scrapes across my skin.

“I’ll be there.”

No questions. No commentary. No feelings. Just that same blunt-edged resolution he always has.

I hang up, swipe at my face, and focus on breathing through the pressure building in my chest like a scream that doesn’t know how to form.

When I finally pull into the parking lot of the nursing home, I don’t move right away. My fingers hover over my phone again, this time already knowing who I want to tell, who I need.

But it’s nearly four a.m., and Rosie will be asleep. He will be, too. Yet my fingers move anyway, just to type out a quick text, letting him know that my grandpa isn’t doing well, so I won’t be there for Rosie in the morning.

I stare at the message for a second, debating.

Then I hit send.

Maybe just knowing he’ll wake up and read it, maybe just imagining him seeing my name on his screen…it helps.

It makes me feel less alone.

I kill the engine and step out, the night air sharp against my skin. This place is always quiet at night. Usually, that brings comfort.

Tonight, it feels wrong. Too still. Too eerie. Like the calm that comes before everything shatters.

My heart lurches, but my legs move when I will them to.

Inside, his door is half open. It’s full with soft beeps and shuffling feet and hushed voices. Nurses move with gentle urgency. There are IV lines and machines and monitors that blink in the dark like they know more than I do.

When my eyes land on Grandpa, I’m suddenly not walking anymore. I’m stumbling, crashing down into the chair at his bedside, clutching for his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

His fingers twitch. Just enough.

Still warm.

Still here.

“Hey,” I whisper, tears already slipping down my cheeks.

His eyes flutter open, barely slits, but that stubborn gleam is still there. It’s dimmer, but alive.

“Hush, child,” he rasps, voice like sandpaper. “I’m eighty-five. You can’t be that surprised.”

“Don’t,” I choke out on a sob, shaking my head while trying to blink the tears back. “You’re not allowed to say stuff like that.”

His mouth twitches, something between a smile and a wince. “Your grandmother’s probably already nagging me. She’ll be wondering why I’m late.”

That breaks me. A wet laugh rips from my throat. “You can’t go. I’m not ready.”

“You’ll be okay,” he says. Certain. “He promised me he’d look after you.”

Oh God, Wes.

Of course he did.

A strangled sob works its way up my chest. “Are you scared?”

“Oh no. I’m not scared.”

I blink, trying to understand, trying to hold myself together .

Reaching for my hand, he squeezes it gently. “I don’t want to leave you, but…” He lets out a soft breath, the barest ghost of a smile touching his lips. “I’ve got a date I need to get to.”

A single tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“I finally get to see my girls again. And God knows I’ve missed them.”

The air leaves my lungs in a quiet sob, but I nod because, as much as it hurts, I know it’s true.

He’s not leaving us.

He’s going home.

“Love you, kid,” he murmurs. “You know that, right?”

I bite down on my bottom lip to stop it from trembling. “I know. I love you, too.”

His breath shudders. “I would’ve been scared last year, but now you’ve got people looking out for you. Loving you.”

My throat burns when I think of Wes, of Rosie, of Sunday mornings, pink hoodies, and coffee left waiting for me on the counter.

He knew.

He always knew.

I try to speak, but a nurse steps in to check his IV before replacing a bag. Once she’s done, his eyes are closed again.

My tears fall and drip onto the sheets. “Please don’t go.”

I’m not ready.

I don’t think I ever will be.

∞∞ ∞

The night crawls forward like it’s trying to punish me. Every tick of the clock is a taunt. It’s the kind of slow that makes your skin itch. The kind that pulls grief tighter and tighter across your chest until it’s hard to sit still in your own body.

The hallway outside gets louder as the sky begins to pale, nurses’ sneakers squeaking on tile, voices rising in that cheer reserved for early morning shifts.

My phone buzzes twice, maybe three times.

My brothers, probably. Maybe Dad. I don’t check.

I can’t. I’m too locked into the rhythm of Grandpa’s shallow breathing.

It’s erratic now, like his lungs can’t quite remember the steps.

They say it’s “just a matter of time.” Like that makes it easier, or putting it in clinical terms might dull the blade.

Eli and Theo arrive first, shoulders hunched, eyes red-rimmed and blown wide with disbelief. They don’t ask questions. They don’t speak much at all. They just squeeze my arms, then sit on either side of the bed and take turns whispering into Grandpa’s ear.

Tess comes next with Dad on her heels. The second she sees me, she folds into my arms like she’s been holding it together just long enough to get here.

Dad is quiet. Rigid. All edges and silence. He hovers in the corner like he’s still trying to figure out how to take up space without demanding attention.

Everyone takes turns holding Grandpa’s hand, saying goodbye. I love you. I’m here .

The air thickens with it, a suffocating grief that presses in until I want to crawl out of my skin.

At some point, I’m on my own again. I think everyone else is getting some air, but I don’t dare move.

The room is so still, it feels like the world is holding its breath. I take the moment to close my eyes and rest my head on Grandpa’s hand. The first tear stings. I hardly feel the ones that follow.

Then something warm brushes my cheek, and I startle, eyes snapping open.

Wes is crouched beside me, his fingers swiping away my tears.

“Hey, baby,” he breathes, head tilted as he takes me in.

My voice is hoarse and barely there when I ask, “You came?”

He cups my chin, his thumb dragging gently along my jaw. “You think I’d let you do this alone?”

My throat closes as Grandpa’s voice echoes in my mind again.

You’ve got people looking out for you. Loving you.

And here he is. My person.

“Where’s Rosie?”

“She’s with Kate. She’s fine.”

He slides an arm around me and pulls me into his chest like he knows that’s the only place I want to be. I go willingly. My hand fists his shirt as I breathe in the scent of him.

Home.

The hours blur after that.

The day stretches through the windows, the light too cheerful for the grief pressing down on us. Wes never leaves my side. He brings coffee I barely drink. Rubs my back in slow, steady circles. Presses a kiss to my temple when the ache gets too much.

A nurse steps in mid-morning. She checks Grandpa’s vitals. The way she exhales tells me everything before she even speaks.

No change. No hope .

The monitor next to the bed ticks more slowly. The beeps are spaced farther apart now, as if each one has to be coaxed into existence.

I hold tighter.

I hold and hold and hold.

And then it happens in a barely there moment.

His fingers jerk once.

A sudden twitch.

One last grasp at life.

Then nothing.

The monitor lets out a long, steady tone, and my lungs cave.

“No.” The sound shatters in my throat. “No—no, no—”

Wes catches me before I can fall apart completely. My sobs rip through me in silence, the kind that hurt more because no one hears them. I scream inside, every part of me crying for one more breath, one more moment, one more chance.

Please, come back. Please, Grandpa. Please.

The room is crowded with my family, but I don’t move. I stay pressed to Wes’s chest, the only anchor I have in a sea of devastation. He doesn’t speak. He just holds me, hands splayed over my back like he can hold me together with touch alone.

Eventually, the sobs give way to aching stillness.

I lift my head. The monitor is off now. The nurses are moving around him with the careful reverence that comes with the end. His chest doesn’t rise. His eyes never open.

He’s gone.

I feel Wes’s breath at my temple, chanting words like a vow. “I’ve got you.”

It’s a promise I didn’t even realize I needed.