EVEN IF IT HURTS
A free sample by A.L. Russell
PROLOGUE + CHAPTER ONE
Please check Trigger & Content Warnings. I give a shit about your mental health.
PROLOGUE
Elias
The chorus of Fall Out Boy’s “Sugar, We’re Goin Down” blares from my phone, dragging me out of sleep.
I swear I shut my eyes five minutes ago.
If someone else has died this week, I’m quitting my job and becoming a sugar baby.
I sigh, blindly reaching over to my nightstand. Patting around, my fingers find the familiar shape and silicone texture of my phone’s black case, and I grab it. I squint at the brightness—yep, Sunny Hills Nursing Home’s calling.
Fuck’s sake. It’s the small hours of Friday morning. The sun won’t be up for hours. I’d kill for an eight-to-five corpse.
Norovirus has hit the place hard. This is the third body this week from them alone.
I swipe, answering. “This is Elias.” Sleep has roughened my voice, dragging it lower than usual.
“Hi, Elias. It’s Kate.”
A smirk unfurls at the corner of my mouth. “Miss me that much, huh?”
Kate laughs. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Tell me, babydoll.” I roll onto my side, grinning devilishly into the dark. “Why’re you calling this late? Tell me, was it because you want me to edge you again for…mmm, about an hour? Or do you want another mind-altering orgasm? Those are in plentiful supply for you, gorgeous. All you gotta do is ask.”
Kate purrs a small moan through the line, making me smile wider. “The other week was…” She sighs wistfully. “Incredible. Love to do that again.”
“Me too, babydoll. Me fucking too, but—” I pull the phone away, checking the time, then press my phone back to my ear. “Your timing’s shit. Can I call you back when the sun’s up?”
“You can call me tomorrow, but unfortunately, tonight is a business call. I tried the main line, but no one was answering.”
I snort. “Yeah, no shit. It’s one thirty in the morning.” I chuckle to myself. “What can I do for you? Someone die?”
“Yes, a resident has passed away, and we need to arrange transportation to you.”
Everything below my sternum caves into hollowness.
Fuck, please don’t be who I think it is.
I inhale deeply. “Sure,” I say, with a rush of exhalation. “I’ll text my removal guy.”
“Thanks, Elias,” she says, tone all soft and warm, like she’s smiling.
“No problem.” I hang up, drop my phone on my bare chest, and rub the sleep from my eyes. As I yawn, the hollowness beneath my sternum spreads, carving out space in my chest.
I don’t believe in signs. Not the esoteric kind, anyway. But I’m praying this is all bullshit, and I’m not about to look one of those signs in its dead eyes.
I lift my phone from my chest and text Tucker, my removal guy. Dropping my arm, phone in hand, I stare at the dark, empty ceiling, and the past rushes back with brutal clarity.
A year ago, that call would’ve gone unanswered. I would’ve been somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, chasing the next dopamine rush, either through sex or violence—I wasn’t picky. She didn’t know I existed, so I stopped giving a shit about my own mortality.
My phone buzzes, yanking me back into my bedroom.
Tucker: Be there in 30. Just finishing up with a drop-off.
Me: Thanks. Meet you at the side entrance.
Tucker sends back the salute emoji. He can never just leave you on read. He has to reply to let you know he’s received the message. Some call it Southern manners, others might call it a pathological need to acknowledge every fucking thing, but I like it. I never have to guess with Tuck.
I flip my comforter back, and sit up on the side of my bed, yawning. Then I stand, and dress in my black jeans, slip into the Slipknot tee I threw on after my post-work shower, and drop back to the mattress to put on my Chuck Taylors—suede low tops, because I’m a purist and I make zero apologies for it.
I cross the hall to the bathroom to relieve myself, and head down the seventeen stairs of the main staircase. I throw back a quick drink of water in the kitchen, then amble through the house. Taking the back stairs into the mortuary in the basement, I open the door, closing it quietly behind me, then continue east down the long service hall, passing my parents’ offices, to my office at the end.
At my desk, I flick the lamp on, and wiggle my mouse, waking up the PC. Today’s schedule is pretty standard for a Friday at Winchester Funeral Home. Don’t know why, but for some reason people love to bury their dead mostly on Fridays. We have a private viewing in the morning, so the family can say goodbye to Mr. Rodriguez before his funeral at eleven, and there’s another funeral at three for Clancy James. He was a quirky old man, but he was harmless and sweet. He used to run the hardware store when I was a kid. Both families have been easy to work with. They don’t want anything fancy, which makes overseeing the funerals that much easier.
I open a new entry for the incoming body but delete it as quick. There’s no point in making an entry into our system for a body that I have zero-fucking-details on yet.
And the unknowable limbo I’m in right now pisses me the fuck off. Patience is the one thing I’m good at, besides my job, and it deserts me the moment she’s involved.
The family for this decedent will probably call Mom in the morning and begin funeral arrangements—Monday at the latest. But that doesn’t cure the nervous itch I have right now.
You’d think after seven entire years as a licensed mortician in the state of Louisiana that I’d be used to all this now. And for the most part, I am. But it’s not knowing who this newly deceased person is, especially after hearing that a certain someone’s grandmother wasn’t doing well this week. If it’s who I think it is, bye-bye stable mental health and all the work I’ve done on myself. I know I’ll relapse.
I glance at the clock on the wall. 1:48. Tucker should be here. It’s been about fifteen minutes since I texted him.
I push away from the desk, stand, and walk out of my office. I take a left into the long service hall, and pass Mom and Dad’s darkened offices, and the storage closet tucked into the end of the hall, by the side entrance’s double doors. Grabbing the old lever-handles, I push down, and the aged, steel hinges groan as I shove the doors open.
Immediately, humidity envelops me, clinging to my clothes and skin like a second layer as cicadas drone in rolling waves. Summer has settled early in Mosswood this year, and tonight’s no exception. The air’s almost thick enough to drink, and it’s only mid-May.
Tucker’s waiting for me at the back of the transport van and looks up from his clipboard in his hand as I step out into the amber wash of the outside lights, on either side of the doors.
“Evenin’, Elias.” Tucker waves, smiling.
“Hey, Tuck.” I smile.
“Or mornin’? It’s fuckin’ late man. Been goin’ since eight.” He straightens with a deep inhale and a noisy exhale right as there’s rustling in the garden that borders the front, leading up to the stone porch.
We both glance over. Probably an armadillo.
“Yeah.” I snicker, returning my attention back to him. “Somethin’ like that. You nearly done for the night?”
“Last stop,” he says. “Been thinkin’ ’bout my wife’s gumbo for the last four hours. It’s waiting on the cooktop for me at home.”
“It’s hot as balls tonight,” I remark, not knowing what to do with the gumbo comment.
“Sure is,” he says as he tucks the clipboard under his arm. Somewhere in the graveyard that borders my Gothic Victorian home and property, a whippoorwill calls out, answered by another deeper among the thick trees at the rear.
“I wonder if that’s someone sayin’ goodbye,” Tucker says as he turns and opens the back doors of the van.
It’s an old superstition. Whippoorwills are supposed to be an omen of death, and the signaler of human souls who’ve recently departed a living body. I say it’s just a nocturnal bird doing its thing. But, hey. Folks will believe what they want to.
Air wafts out, dense with freshly sprayed CaviCide, as Tucker yanks the gurney out of the back of the van. The subtle but lingering stench of decomposition reaches my nose.
Tucker must’ve done a late-stage pick up tonight, before collecting this body.
Louisiana heat turns bodies fast. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and decay sets in. CaviCide disinfects surfaces, but it never truly quashes the sickly smell of decomp. It clings to your clothes and the inside of your nostrils. Once you know that smell, your brain remembers it.
“Another one from Sunny Hills?” I half-heartedly ask as Tucker toes the brakes on the gurney.
“Yeaup. They were droppin’ like flies over there for a bit.”
I make a quick, throaty sound as Tucker pulls the clipboard out from under his arm. “Name and age?” I’m dying to know. My lower back’s all tingly. I’m practically vibrating.
Tucker clicks his tongue, scanning the paperwork. “Says here, Marjorie Ellison. Eighty-nine.”
Fuck. Shit. Fuck, fuck, fucking-shit.
Cold dread winds around my stomach, dragging it down to my heels.
I was hoping, for the sake of my mental health, that she’d pulled through.
Welp, it’s been fun while it lasted.
“Wait,” Tucker says, sliding his gaze to me. “Ain’t this the grandmother of that girl you went to high school with?”
I give him a mouth-shrug, lifting my shoulders once. “I think so?” I say, playing dumb.
“Now, what was her name again? Pretty thang; all porcelain skin and dark hair. And those blue eyes.” Tucker whistles. “Ellison. Ellison…T-Taryn? Talen?”
“Ah…” I break off, covering the full body goosebumps her memory induces with a snicker. “Wasn’t her name Tatum, Tate, or something?”
Tucker snaps his fingers and points at me. “That’s the one, Tatum Ellison.” His eyes drift down, then back up. “Wasn’t she in St. Jerome’s with you?”
“Honestly? I can’t remember,” I lie smoothly.
I do, though. She was in my year, but I’m tired as fuck, and can’t be bothered having this conversation at two in the morning over a decedent.
“Well, shit.” He grins. “Would you look at that. You’re about to get a blast from the past. Reckon she’ll be back for the funeral?”
Oh, I know she will.
I shrug. “Probably,” I mumble.
Tucker takes a pen out of the chest pocket of his shirt, and hands it to me with the clipboard. “Sign here, and she’s all yours.” His stomach grumbles. “I have a pot of gumbo with my name on it. Make it snappy.”
Taking them, I grip the pen tight, the plastic cracking. I scribble Elias Winchester on the dotted line at the bottom of the form, but my eyes snag on the medical details at the top.
Name: Marjorie Ellison.
Age: 89 years old.
Blood Type: AB-negative.
I mentally file that one away, handing both back to him. It’s not every day you come across someone with a rare blood type. That shit’s interesting to me.
He tucks the broken pen back in place, shoving his clipboard under his arm. Black ink starts to bloom in the bottom corner of his chest pocket.
I squint.
Shit. I broke his pen. “Ah…your pen’s leaking.”
Tucker looks down. “Shoot.” He rubs uselessly at the stain. “My wife’s gon’ kill me.”
Yikes. My fault.
He sighs then lifts his gaze. “Any who. Be seein’ ya, Elias.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Tuck.”
“Anytime.” He gives a lazy two-finger salute, closes the doors, rounds the van, and climbs in. The taillights flare as he starts the van and drives off down the darkened driveway.
I stand where I am as he turns right, the red glow of his taillights disappears into the dark, and the night creatures only scream louder, as though the heat’s got them on a spit turning over hellfire.
“Well, Marjorie. It’s just you and me now.” I grab the handles on the gurney, walk backward to the side entrance, open both doors, and wheel her inside, shutting the heavy wood doors behind me. The click echoes through the quiet halls, over the low hum of the overhead fluorescents. One stutters as I push Marjorie down the corridor, as if it’s signaling to all the things that go bump in the night that there’s activity in the building.
The gurney’s wheels roll across the tiled floor, catching on the odd cracks and chips, worn from generations of use.
The mortuary is eerily still this time of the night, the air shifting in strange ways. It’s cooler near the walls, and warmer by the vents. The chill from the air conditioning is normal. The sense I’m not alone? That’s just the hour. Or maybe I’ve watched so many horror movies I’m desensitized, so I’d hand whatever is lurking a pair of gloves and tell it to help. Mom and Dad are asleep, so they can’t help me get Marjorie into the body fridge. I just want to go back to bed. I’m tired.
I slide the mortuary door open along the wall, wheel Marjorie into the dark room, and flick the lights on. The blinding sterility makes me squint as my eyes adjust to the brightness.
“Welcome to your new home for a week, Mrs. Ellison.”
She doesn’t answer. They never do.
I press the gurney’s brake with the toe of my Cons, yank the cupboard open next to the fridge, and grab a coverall. The Tyvek is thin, crinkling as I pull it on and zip it up. And from the box on the bench, I grab a pair of gloves, along with a face mask.
Once I’m in my PPE, I remove Marjorie’s clothing, clean her with warm soapy water, and dry her off. They would’ve bathed her at the nursing home, but the wash-down we do is more of a precautionary biohazard clean.
I drape a clean, white cotton sheet over her body and wheel her to the fridge. Unlatching the stainless-steel door, I ease it open. The hinges creak loudly in the stillness, and cold air mists as it spills free. I pull on the tray, and it rasps as it slides out.
This lift is going to be awkward, even for a big guy like me at two sixty-five pounds, and six five. I work out, and I’m strong. But transferring a decedent from the gurney to the fridge’s tray on my own presents a unique challenge. The angle isn’t ideal either. Normally, this would be a two-person job, with one on each side of the body.
“Aight,” I say mostly to myself as I lean over the fridge tray and get as much of my arm under her shoulders as possible, pulling her torso toward me. She’s heavy, shifting under her own weight, limp in the way the living never are. They don’t call it dead weight for no reason. I get her shoulders and ribs onto the tray. It shudders but holds easily. Next are her hips and legs, which sound easy, but with the angle her hips are on, it’s going to be a strain.
I lift her bottom half onto the tray, and make sure she’s straight, tucking her arms along her sides, then slide the tray back in, latching the door closed.
I lay a hand on the chilly steel and look down.
I haven’t seen Tate in, what—four years? And even then, it was glimpses when she would occasionally come home.
Now her grandmother’s in my care, which means Tate’s coming home. She’d never miss the funeral, not unless she was dead. And I’d know if she was dead, I’d feel it.
Patience is something you lose when nothing ahead of you feels worth waiting for, but I found my way back to it.
“I’ve been a very patient man.” I pat the cooler door thrice. “See you soon, Blackbird.”
CHAPTER ONE
Elias
It’s 6:53 on a Thursday morning, and I’m standing in the bathroom, fresh out of the shower.
Drying myself with one hand, phone in the other, I’m refreshing Tate Ellison’s Instagram profile every three seconds. She hasn’t posted anything for a week. The longest she’s ever gone without posting was three days, and that was back when she was in her last year of college, during finals. With her grandmother’s funeral tomorrow, surely, she’d post something. Her travel plans, a new coffee shop she’s been to, the actual thing she’s coming back to Mosswood for. Hell, I’d even take a picture of her neighbor’s flower garden right now. She’s posted a few of them; she loves her bougainvilleas.
The last post she made was of a pasta dish she had Thursday night at Milano Pizza on West Stassney Lane in Austin, a restaurant she’s been to four times since last October.
While Tate was eating pasta, her grandmother was dying in the nursing home.
Kinda sad, really.
Tate left Mosswood the second she graduated from St. Jerome’s and never looked back. But she comes home sometimes, for the things she can’t avoid.
I, on the other hand, never left. I went into a mortuary science program at Delgado Community College in New Orleans as soon as I graduated from high school. Later, I went to LSU, this time for religious studies for funsies, because the intersection of death and faith has always fascinated me.
I don’t share the belief in God that many of the grieving families at Winchester Funeral Home do. I lost that somewhere in the first two years of working as a licensed mortician, preparing children beaten to death and the elderly starved in their own beds. It went for good the first time I documented defensive wounds on the hands of a deceased woman whose husband ushered at our local church. You start to wonder how a man does that and takes communion on Sunday. Wonder it enough times and no benevolent god survives the question. A philosophy course was never going to get me there half as fast. But Mosswood sits in the Bible Belt, so I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut, smile, and nod at funerals.
I assist my father, Victor Winchester, St. Lazare Parish’s coroner, on the bodies the parish wants opened up for answers they can’t get any other way.
Five generations of us Winchesters have been putting this town in the ground. I could’ve set up somewhere else, and there was a stretch where I nearly did, but I’d have been hours away from Magnolia Blossom Road—Tate’s street. I don’t think I’d survive if I knew she was back in Mosswood and I wasn’t here.
Pathetic? Sure. I’ve had it explained to me by a licensed professional at ninety dollars an hour. Granted, it’s been a hell of a lot more eloquently put than that. But it is what it is. I’m thirty years old, and I’m still obsessed with that one girl from high school. At least this…penchant I have for Tate Ellison hasn’t rotted me and turned me into some kind of psycho—okay, bit of a stretch. I am a bit of a psycho. I mean, who else can say they’ve stood under a girl’s window at night to feel close to her, and she didn’t know I was there? Yeah, I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of, most of it illegal in all fifty states. This fixation’s preserved me the way formaldehyde preserves the dead, which is to say it stopped anything else growing in my heart a long time ago.
I couldn’t have Tate, so I found other ways to keep the lights on. I leapt over that line at the end of 2014, the year she left, in the back of somebody’s car, with somebody’s wife. And I didn’t give a single fuck about it, which is odd. I mean, I should’ve felt something, right? Regret for breaking up a marriage? Remorse for helping a woman cheat on her husband? Truth is, the day Tate Ellison left for Austin, I shut down, and I haven’t been the same since.
I looked for women to fill that void, and I was very selective. They had to have hair like hers, eyes like hers, and lips like hers. The problem is that nobody has ever come close. I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried. But every single one of those women walked out of my house in the small hours of the morning, with me knowing she wasn’t the only one fucked. Which is why I don’t have a roster. I don’t like getting to know them; they aren’t her.
So, I got into kink, and that led me to discover I’m a Dom. I need to be. I need to have things go exactly the way I’ve planned because I don’t like surprises.
I was with my sub, Lyssa Knox, last night. She had a drop after our scene that took her into a dark place, and I wasn’t going to kick the poor woman out just because I was tired. A good Dom stays with his subs until they feel safe enough to leave. Aftercare is paramount to me.
But the truth is, I’d been distracted through the whole damn scene. I didn’t miss a cue or lose track of Lyssa. Never that. But Tate had been sitting in the back of my skull the entire fucking time. Was she already in Louisiana? Had she landed? Was she sleeping in her old bedroom on Magnolia Blossom Road while I had another woman tied to mine? I felt like an asshole. Lyssa hadn’t agreed to share a scene with a woman who wasn’t even fucking there. So when the drop hit, I stayed with her longer than I normally would. She needed it, and after spending the night mentally somewhere else, giving her anything less than my full attention afterward would’ve made me an even bigger asshole.
I’d untied her from the restraints on my bed a little before eleven, and she left around one in the morning.
I don’t normally keep regulars, but Lyssa’s different. Something in her trauma speaks to the caged Heathen and soothes him for a small window of time. Mostly, I only have hookups and flings. Lyssa comes to me at least once a week from Pont des Mouton, about fifteen minutes out, and gets her fill. She likes it rough. And when I say rough, I mean everything’s on the table, except hand necklaces and spanking. Which, given that last night she wanted me to punch her in the face, is an interesting place to draw the line.
I refused as nicely as I could. I’ll never punch a woman in the name of kink.
But I suspect that woman’s got daddy issues so unexamined they’ve slipped into Schrödinger’s cat territory. Could be a thing. Could also be an assumption. I’ve never asked. Some things you just accept and move on.
Another refresh of Tate’s profile, and a new post pops up. I open it, and she’s standing at a departure gate in Texas. One hand is holding a takeout coffee, there’s a carry-on next to her on the ground, and she’s smiling, looking right at the camera, but it’s one of those I-need-to-look-happy smiles.
Two of her friends from high school have already commented, Laney Minor and Sophie Becks. But I’m not looking at that. Tate cut her hair. It’s still long but sitting closer to her shoulders now. And she’s wearing the gray oversized tee she bought back in March.
Those fucking eyes. Icy blue, almost inhuman.
In person, they’re worse. Or better…I still haven’t decided.
In 2022, when she came home for Christmas, I saw her at our local coffee shop on Main, just down the road from Winchester Funeral Home. She was with some friends at a table. Even though we made eye contact as I walked past, and she smiled at me, I didn’t stop. I was too chickenshit. What’s that thing about meeting your idols? Never do it? Does that same logic apply here? I know she’s not an awful person, and fuck me, is she drop-dead gorgeous, but knowing someone in theory and knowing them are two completely different things. Because what if I do get to know her, and we’re simply incompatible? Part of me never wants to find out, which is why I’ve kept my distance for years.
Drop-dead gorgeous. Ha! I crack myself up. But she really is.
Fuck it. This time, when she comes home from Texas, I’m claiming what’s mine. Tate Ellison will be my wife.
But I’ve gotta talk to her first.
I’m still standing in my bathroom, naked, with the towel paused over my groin. I’m supposed to be drying myself, and technically I have a morning routine to execute.
What flight is she on?
It’s taking up way more space in my mind than is necessary.
I drop the towel and pinch the screen, zooming in on the photo. Specifically, the gate signage behind her. Austin-Bergstrom. I can make out the flight number, so I pull up the departures and check the connections. Houston, then Lafayette. Her flight gets in at 9:52, and that’s 24.8 miles from Mosswood.
I could…I mean, the flight’s probably already boarding…
I shake my head.
I’m not doing this.
But here’s what I know about myself, empirically, based on thirty years of available data; when it comes to Tate Ellison, I’m absolutely doing this. Except I have rules now, boundaries I no longer cross. Because if I do, I’m setting myself up for another mental health spiral and relapse.
Twelve years. That’s how long it’s taken me to get to some form of fully functioning adult. Twelve years of therapy, a hell of a lot of kink, drugs, alcohol, and a slight detour into Louisiana’s underbelly, thanks to Rhett Hollis. Mmm, yeah. Let’s call it a slight detour. The actual truth is far more complicated than that. My therapist helped me with the impulsivity I’m inclined to by breathing life into the Committee. They’re a fictional boardroom of people she made me visualize, who present all the logical ideas about why what I want to do is fucked-up. I listened to them for a while, then I slammed that door shut. I peek in every now and again just to check on them. But for the past year, they’ve been silent. Mostly because I’ve been helping Mom recover from her injury, but hey. Small wins.
“Okay,” I sigh. I am not doing this. I can get through her coming home without this affecting me the way it used to.
I set my phone on the vanity, grip the counter on either side of it, and stare at the picture, drumming my fingers on the wood.
I mean, I could just stand back and watch her from afar, just to…y’know…make sure she arrives safely.
Hard pass. Been down that alley before, and it didn’t end well for me.
But what if no one’s there to pick her up? Might be an inroad. But what would I say? I could lie and say I just…dropped someone off? A friend, or some shit?
No.
There’s one problem, though. I have never once successfully talked myself out of anything where Tate Ellison is concerned. The internal debate? I need to give the Heathen and the Committee a little push-pull before I give in, right?
I pick up my phone, opening my messages with my best friend, Jude Hollis.
Me: If my parents ask where I am, I’m with you. You needed help with something at the flower farm. That’s what you tell them.
He’ll give me shit about the hour. I just know it.
One, two, three, four, five…
Jude: Bro. It’s not even 7 in the morning and you’re already calling in best friend favors?
It’s like I know him.
Me: I need this, J. Lie for me. I’ll explain later.
Jude: What’d you do?
Me: Nothing yet.
Jude: What’re you ABOUT to do?
Me: I’ll tell you later.
Jude: I need to know what the fuck I’m lying for you about, so I can sell it, man.
Me: Yes or no?
Jude: Fine. But you owe me, fucker.
Me: I’ll make it up to you. Thank you. And I mean that.
I’m so fucking doing this.
I take my phone across the hall into my bedroom, toss it onto the black sheets on my bed, and drag open my dresser drawer. I pull out my black Soulfly tee. It’s a vintage, hard-to-find shirt from their ’98 tour. Did I drop five-hundred-odd bucks on it? You bet your ass I did. I rarely wear it. Today feels fitting; it’s a special occasion.
I dress in under thirty seconds, spray on deodorant, spritz cologne, and grab a ball cap. Heading downstairs, I smooth my hair back, slipping the cap backward as I take the main staircase with seventeen stairs down, through the house, and into the kitchen at the front that opens up into the dining room, with the living room behind it. Mom’s sitting at the island counter, sipping tea. She’s got the newspaper in one hand, and her glasses perched on her nose. “Morning, Elias.”
I walk over to her, kissing her temple. “Morning. Sleep well? How’s your hip?”
She scowls at me, tsking. “The hip’s fine. Stop fussing.”
Mmm, I will fuss.
Dad had called me early one morning, saying that Mom had fallen down the stairs, and she was being taken to the hospital. That phone call was the red light I needed. I’m not proud of where I was, mentally, when she had that fall. I was hungover to the eyeballs and living with a damn-near crippling cocaine addiction. The detour started as undercover work with Rhett Hollis, Jude’s older cousin, a shady ex-cop turned PI. I was in a dark place at the time. Tate hadn’t been home in years. I only had access to her via Instagram, where she’d feed me crumbs, and I finally saw my obsession with her for what it was: a big fucking problem with no kill switch. That was the version of Elias Winchester that needed fixing, and to some degree, I did fix him. After I clawed my way out of a spiraling drug habit and got my ass back into therapy, I put it all behind me. Mostly.
“You eaten?” I ask Mom.
“I’m fine, Elias.”
Which means no. I walk over to the fridge, pull it open, grab two eggs, the butter, and get a pan on the burner at the stove before she can argue.
“You don’t have to do that.” She turns the page of the newspaper.
“I know.” I crack the eggs into the pan. “Dad up?”
“He’s in the office downstairs. The Ellisons called last night. There’ve been some changes made to the service. Apparently, Tatum doesn’t want to make a speech about her grandmother. Odd, if you ask me, but I don’t really know her that well.”
I do, but her relationship with her family is something of a mystery to me. She never posts about them on social media, so I’m assuming things aren’t great? Hard to tell.
She posts about her dog all the time, though. Well, at least she used to. She owns a giant German shepherd. And when I say giant, I mean it. That thing’s a furry missile on four legs. Don’t know his name. She’s never mentioned it in any of her posts. All I know is he’s a boy dog, and he sleeps on the bed with her.
Lucky fucker.
“I’ll check on Dad before I head out.”
She looks up from the newspaper as I turn and grab a plate from the cupboard beside her. “Heading out where?”
“I’m…” Shit. Should’ve kept my mouth shut. “Jude called. He needs a hand at the farm.”
She holds my gaze for longer than comfortable, but I don’t balk. We both know I’m lying, though Mom won’t ask unless she has concrete evidence. I smile, and she hums low in her throat, looking back at her newspaper.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be back before noon. Plenty of time to get Marjorie ready for her big send-off tomorrow.”
A few minutes later, I plate her eggs and put them in front of her. “Eat. Your hip’s still healing from the last surgery. And, for the love of all things sacred, don’t push yourself today. Your hip can’t take it.”
“Elias.” The newspaper crumples as she drops her hands on the countertop. “Stop. Fussing. The doctors gave me the all-clear after the last hip surgery.”
“Yes, but they also said light duties for six months. We’re four months out from the last surgery.”
“Don’t you have a friend who needs you?”
I chuckle to myself. “See you after lunch.” I swipe up my keys from the hook by the back door and yank the door open. Closing it behind me, I take a deep breath.
This is insane. I know it’s insane. I’m about to drive 24.8 miles to stand in an airport just to get a glimpse of the only woman who ever made me feel anything.
I need help.