Why Lie? (Love Riddles #2) (6 page)

Growing up, it reminded me of the windows on a boat. I would pretend I was a pirate and the loft was my ship. If it were raining, like it is now, I’d imagine my ship was being tossed about in a mighty storm.

Things were much simpler when I didn’t have to worry about broken hearts and whether to forgive the one who broke it. It seems silly to be this upset over what amounted to a week of fooling around.

The part that hurts the most, that is making it so difficult to get over it, was it felt so real to me. So real that I thought Heath was falling for me. If I forgive him and give him another chance, how will I know what’s real or not real if I didn’t before?

“Where is she?” I ask, not bothering to sit, but instead, stepping to stand between two stools.

Gigi’s brows pinch together in apparent confusion. “Who?”

Her question is part tease part insult. She knows exactly who I’m looking for.

“Sydney. Her bug is gone and her phone is going straight to voice mail,” I reply.

She shrugs. “I’m not her keeper.”

Leaning toward her, my weight on my elbow, I say, “But you are her boss so she’d tell you where she was going.”

She shrugs again, this time with a Cheshire cat-like smile. “Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t.”

“Please,” I murmur. “Tell me where she is.”

She moves to stand directly across the counter from me, her hands on her hips. “Why should I, Heathcliff?”

“I need to talk to her.”

She tilts her head to one side, her gaze moving over my face in a blatant evaluation. “You talked to her yesterday.”

That confirms my suspicion that she’s shared our issues with her grandmother. My throat tightens and I fight the desire to drop my eyes to my feet. It’s an uncomfortable sensation, facing accusation in someone you admire.

I’ve been coming to Lola’s my whole life. Gigi has always been good to me and has been especially kind to my mom since she’s been sick. Shame. It’s a solid weight in my gut. There’s only one person who can free me from it, and she’s nowhere to be found.

“I don’t know what she’s told you but she has every right to hate me. That isn’t going to stop me from trying to get her to forgive me.”

She nods, her expression staying blank. Gigi Fairlane isn’t making this easy for me; she’s not going to give me an inch.

“When she is ready to talk to you, she will let you know,” she replies.

“Where did she go? When is she coming back?” That weight in my gut twists. “Is she coming back?”

She shrugs again, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she turns to walk away.

Over her shoulder, she murmurs. “Is she worth waiting for?”

Yes.

I keep that to myself. She’s the one who needs to hear that, not the breakfast crowd at Lola’s.

It’s pointless to stay there since Sydney is somewhere else. On Saturdays, I’ve been going to my mom and dad’s place to sit with her.

I was eight years old when I learned the name for why my mom saw so many doctors, primary pulmonary hypertension. The arteries of her lungs didn’t work as they should have. They made her heart have to work harder to oxygenate her blood.

Her condition sucked but wasn’t terrible. She was tired a lot, and never carried groceries or anything heavy.

Since I didn’t know any different, I never thought it was a huge deal. It wasn’t until I was eight that my parents let me in on how serious her condition was.

She was not born with a heart condition. During her pregnancy with me was when it reared its ugly head.

It’s the complications from her condition and a strain to her other organs that have become too much for her. They’re failing and given the number of surgeries she’s already had, she isn’t a strong candidate for a transplant.

She and my dad decided that they didn’t want to take away someone else’s opportunity to get an organ so they asked that she not be added to any lists.

I say “they” but that choice was all her. My dad only goes along with it because it’s what she wants. She’s the one who has lived with the condition for over thirty years.

My dad shared there were times so bleak that her wanting to see a milestone in my life is what got her through it. She wanted to see me walk. Then she wanted to see me ride a bike. Next she wanted to see me turn ten.

There was something monumental about that birthday for her. She decided that if she lived until I was ten, she was certain that I wouldn’t forget her after she died.

Then she wanted to see me start high school. Through those years, there were a handful of events she wanted to be front row and center for. She sat in the backseat while dad taught me how to drive.

She was in a wheelchair that day, but she watched me graduate high school and then college. It’s crazy, but all the effort I put into convincing Kacey to stay engaged to me was so I could give my mom another thing to stay alive for.

She’s done it my whole life.

It wasn’t fair to Kacey but selfishly, once I saw the opportunity, I didn’t think about anyone other than myself. I wanted to give my mom a reason to live, a day in time to mark on a calendar.

With each life event she made it to, we were able to set another one. What would have come next, a grandbaby? A life created with a woman I cared about but was not in love with just so I could try to give my mom a reason to live?

I was even bitter when Kacey broke things off with me. Nearly losing Jake to that rig explosion was a rude awakening to what a massive asshole I’d been. That was what got me off of my ass and into Lola’s. Through it all, I couldn’t get Sydney out of my head. Believe me, I tried. Seeing two of my closest friends almost torn apart was too much for me.

I’d rather apologize to her for the rest of my life than live with the regret of not trying. Ultimately, it is up to her to decide if she’ll ever give me another chance.

Gigi asked if she was worth waiting for. Deep down I know she is.

After I pull into the drive and park, I stare up at the house I grew up in. Should I tell her about Sydney? So far I haven’t because I don’t want her to think I’m inventing another reason for her to keep going. All of these years I’ve been her reason to live. She’s fought and held on, that is until she decides I don’t need her anymore. Thing is, I’ll always need my mom.

After what I pulled with Kacey, I’d hate for my mom to wonder if my feelings for Syd aren’t real. I don’t want her to think it’s another ploy for her to keep fighting.

What I did was selfish. It’s my mom’s wishes that I should have been worried about, not mine. Her heart has been working extra hard to make up for her lungs for so long. PH in real life is nothing like the movies. It’s confusing to people outside of the family because, for the most part, my mom seems fine.

When her condition was manageable, she rarely needed to use her wheelchair or oxygen. What people don’t see are the scars from all of her operations, though. For her pace makers alone she’s had six operations.

Now, because her heart is done working overtime, it isn’t pumping the blood through her body like it should. This causes a backup in her liver. It’s a domino effect from there with swelling and pain, not to mention pushing against and inflaming her stomach.

She’s taking water pills, which are helping with her discomfort. The fact that she feels any pain at all with the amount of pain medicine she’s on is insane. She can barely move now without losing her breath. That’s the hardest part for me, listening to her struggle to breathe. Even advanced medicine and breathing machines don’t help much. Her lungs and heart are shutting down. All we can do is sit back and watch.

When I was eight and they first explained to me that she was sick, I thought I had the power to fix her. Earlier that week I had gone over to Jake’s house to play. Reilly was watching
Snow White
and the only part I saw was the huntsman bringing the queen a heart.

So I drew heart after heart and gave them to my mom. As young as I was, I didn’t understand that my paper hearts wouldn’t fix what was wrong with her.

“Are you going to sit in your car staring at the house all day?”

My head jerks to the left. So lost in my thoughts, I didn’t notice my dad walk up holding an umbrella. Shaking my head, I kill the engine before unbuckling my seat belt.

He waits for me as I get out of my car and close the door behind me. “Thanks, Dad.”

Together we make our way to the front walkway, his arm coming around so his hand can squeeze my shoulder. “I couldn’t figure out if it was the rain that was keeping you in your car or our talk the other night.”

When we reach the front door, he shuts the umbrella and leaves it leaned up against one of the wicker chairs on our front porch.

“I was lost in thought,” I admit.

He pulls open the storm door. “Good ones I hope.”

There, in the foyer of the house I grew up in, I ask, “Have you heard any gossip about me recently?”

My dad has never been one for talking about anything besides sports or politics, and both piss him off, so my question makes him uncomfortable.

“I try to avoid gossip, son.”

I look past him to the den that we converted into a bedroom for her, relieved to see the door shut. “Did you hear anything about Sydney Fairlane and me?”

He pushes his hands into the pockets of his khaki pants. “There was talk of a soda being dumped over your head.”

Grimacing, I nod. “I deserved it and am trying to convince her to give me another chance.”

At that he looks up, his brown eyes focusing on mine. I inherited my height and build from him, and my coloring from my mom. My father, Thomas Mackey, is tall and dark-haired. He also has brown eyes and is naturally tanner than either my mom or me.

My mom, given her lack of strenuous activity, stayed fair. I managed to build up a tan with all the time I spent outdoors either running, hiking, or surfing.

“I was not aware there was a first chance,” he says.

It’s an effort not to look away. “I screwed up.”

He’s the one who breaks our eye contact by turning his head to look at the closed French doors of the den before looking back at me. “This have something to do with Kacey Albright?”

“Yes.” I take a breath. “Sydney and I had something going before I asked Kacey to marry me. It took watching Kacey nearly lose Jake for me to recognize my mistake. This whole time I’ve been fighting it, refusing to admit I felt something for her.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I ask, “Do you think I should tell Mom about her?”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them, he answers my question with one of his own, “Why would you do that?”

My head gives a small jerk. “Why wouldn’t I tell Mom about the girl I care about?”

“Seeing as how she poured soda on your head, it seems your feelings are not returned. Why upset your mother now?”

Upset my mother?

“How would telling her I’m interested in Sydney Fairlane upset her?”

He crosses his arms over his chest. That move may have put the fear of God in me when I was little but not so much now.

“Your mother was very upset by what happened with Kacey and you. It hurt her that the both of you lied to her. She doesn’t need the stress of you bringing another woman around.”

He had a valid point so I nod. “Okay, Dad.”

His jaw tenses before he says, “She’s having a lousy day, pain wise.”

My jaw clenches. There is nothing worse than watching someone you love deal with pain and be powerless to stop it. It’s pointless to ask if he can give her anything more for it. My dad has been her primary caregiver for so long, he knows her dosing limits better than her doctor. If he could have upped her dose, he would have.

“I’ll go in now,” I murmur, my eyes on the doors.

He reaches up, his hand grasping my shoulder and squeezes it. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

When I visit on pleasant days, my dad or I will carry Mom out to their back deck. It makes her happy to sit in the sun. For her sake, I hope the weather clears up.

Too many days inside makes her restless. Dad follows me down the hall. He continues on his way to the kitchen once I’m in what was their old den.

There was a bay window, the back of the bed set to it so even if my mom was stuck in it, she’d get lots of natural light. She shifts as I cross the room, her face tipping in my direction.

“Hi, honey,” she softly greets. Her voice is weak but not awful considering what my dad said about her pain.

“Hey, Mom, how are you feeling?” I lean over to kiss her cheek.

“Can’t complain.”

As she speaks, I pull a chair closer to her bed and sit. “If there was one person who could complain . . .” I reach out to place my hand on hers.

Her lips tip up. Over the years, my dad and I have teased her about how little she complains. She is honest to God, the strongest person I know.

The last time, no maybe the time before that, that they replaced her pacemaker, they had to do it with minimal anesthesia because of one of her levels somewhere else being raised or falling too low. Hell, at this point, it’s hard to keep it all straight.