Page 16 of Married in Michigan

“I’ve missed you,” I say, setting my purse on the counter and taking my usual seat on the couch in the corner of her room at the hospice care facility. “You haven’t watched without me, have you?”

She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at me.Of course not,I can almost hear her saying.Oughta know better than that.

Today’s a bad day—she’s still in bed, and for Mom, the most vital and active and strong and unstoppable person I know, staying in bed is anathema. But advanced MS doesn’t care. It lays you low, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

I find the remote and turn on our favorite show—Vanderpump Rules. Mom loves the drama, the vapid nonsense, and the arguments…and if she were to admit the truth to me, the boys. But she won’t admit to it, so we both pretend like it’s just for the mindless over-the-top enjoyment. A guilty pleasure we both love because it’s a chance to get out of our own lives for a while.

My spot on the couch is as close to Mom as I can get without being in the bed with her—I can reach out and hold her hand, which I do.

She squeezes, and I turn to look at her—a squeeze means she has something to say.

I can interpret her many expressions, and this one is one I know all too well. “No, Mom, I haven’t met anyone.”

Another squeeze, and her eyes bore into mine. “Truth,” she whispers.

I sigh. “Fine. But I wouldn’t call it meeting someone. The owner of the hotel where I work, Camilla deBraun, she has a son, Paxton. We spoke briefly. But don’t get your hopes up—he’s not just out of my league, he’s in a league I don’t want any part of. He’s rude, arrogant, spoiled, and far too good-looking to be real.”

“Pax…Jax.” Mom smirks, referencing her favorite character fromVanderpump Rules.

“Actually, there’s a resemblance. Except Paxton has more money than God and he’s twice as arrogant and twice as sexy.”

Mom’s eyebrows go up. “New page.”

I translate, and shake my head. “Tigers don’t change their stripes, Mom, you told me that. Just because Jax is a little nicer and more self-aware now that he’s met Brittany doesn’t mean he’s any different, deep down. And Paxton…well, I only spoke to him for a few minutes, but he’s the world’s most unapologetic playboy. And anyway, his mom is making him marry some rich bitch.”

Her eyes narrow at me. “Judge not.”

“Lest ye be judged. Yes, Mom, but Paxton himself said she’s basically the worst human being on the planet.”

“Why marry?”

I shake my head. “It’s a rich person thing. Appearances, basically, from what I gather. They were talking about it while I was working. He’s a politician, in the House of Representatives, and she wants him to clean up his image so he can run for Senate. Which means getting married to spin things away from his life as a playboy. He does nothing but throw extravagant parties and prance around with expensive hookers.” I hiss. “Worst part of it all is that his mom doesn’t even care if it’s a real marriage—she said, in so many words, that as long as he’sdiscreet, as she put it, he can keep sleeping around as much as he wants, just don’t let it make the media.”

Mom’s eyes are on me, and I’d give anything for her to be able to just talk to me. She has to gather her strength, visibly rallying to find the energy and focus for what she wants to say. “Gone soon. Then…you’re…you’re free.”

Tears fill my eyes, and I know Mom hates it more than anything when I cry about this, so I shake them away. “Stop that, Mom. You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you. I’ll take care of you the way you took care of me. Forever and ever, Mom. So…I don’t want to hear you talking like that or I’ll—”

Her hand squeezes mine as hard as she can. “Or…what?”

“Or I’ll watch it without you.”

She snorts, the same sound that caused me so much trouble last week. “Not.”

“I will too!”

“Punk.”

I laugh, and squeeze her hand. “Fine, I wouldn’t. But for real. No more of that. Okay? Please?”

Her eyes fix on mine, and as she does occasionally, she shields her thoughts from me. Normally I can translate her expressions and guess what she’s thinking, but sometimes, like now, she gives me a long, hard stare than contains too much for me to untangle, too much to read.

“You should be…free. Young. Beautiful. Smart.” She thumps the bed with her hand. “Not…this. Old hag. Sick…no future.”

I choke. “Mom, stop. There’s nowhere I’d rather be, and no one I’d rather spend my time with.”

“I cost…too much…money.”

“I’m boring anyway. I wouldn’t go out even if I had friends or anywhere to go, or money to spend.” I squeeze her hand. “You’re my friend. And this is where I’ll be, every night. No matter what.”