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  When his cancer goes into remission.

  I do have something special planned for Sam later, though. Down in the trunk of August’s car are a slew of comfort items I asked him to pick up. While I’ve refused to leave Sam’s side since he’s been admitted, I didn’t have a problem asking August to run and grab a few specific things I know will make Sam feel better.

  When Sam goes down for his transplant, August and I are going to decorate his room to make it feel a bit homier. We have Star Wars sheets and a comforter, a Denver Bronco’s lamp, framed photographs from pictures I’d had on my phone and printed online at the local pharmacy, and Sam’s favorite stuffed animal I had my dad send via FedEx when I got the idea. There are posters of Sam’s favorite athletes to hang on the wall, new and soft cotton pajamas, fuzzy slippers, and a cozy robe.

  August decided to spoil Sam with electronics, and he got him a new iPad, headphones, and a subscription to Apple music. He downloaded all of Sam’s favorite movies and several games he thought would be entertaining. It was a touching gesture, as I’ve never been able to afford an iPad for Sam. I worked as an assistant manager at a local craft store, a position I had to resign from when I realized we were coming to Vegas for his treatment. It was fine since it’s not like it was my dream job. Only a way to make money, contribute to my dad’s salary as a salesman for a wireless carrier, and try to provide a decent life for Sam.

  I suspect August makes damn good money if his house is any indication, which means he’s going to be able to afford to give Sam things I can’t. Strangely, I’m okay with that because I know the value of what I give to Sam. August will make his own way. From everything I can see so far, he’s off to a great start with our kid.

  Pushing up from the chair, I make my way over to the small sink beside Sam’s bed. There’s a mirror hanging over it. I’ve tried hard not to peek into it lately, but vanity supersedes.

  God, I look terrible.

  My skin is dull, my eyes sunken in, and my lips are chapped dry because I’ve been horrible at hydration. I guarantee I’ve lost a few pounds because I haven’t been eating well. I can’t even remember if I brushed my teeth today.

  I turn on the cold water, cup my hand under the stream, and splash a little on my face. It’s refreshing, but it ultimately does nothing to perk me up. Perhaps another cup of coffee is in order. Vanity hits again, so I try to at least tuck some stray hairs under my isolation cap.

  I sneak a furtive glance at August, recalling the wild sex we’d had ten days ago. I’m sure there’s absolutely nothing sexy or appealing about me right now, not that it matters. Like he said, that was just a one-time thing when we were swept away by our jubilant moods.

  A mistake, really.

  There’s a knock on the door. I pivot that way, expecting it to be a medical professional to check Sam’s vitals or do a blood draw.

  Instead, my jaw about hits the floor when I see my dad, dressed in yellow isolation gear and clutching a stuffed teddy bear. His eyes are pinned on Sam, who about comes flying out of bed, but manages to remember the IV in his arm at the last minute. “Grandpa,” he exclaims, a toothy grin giving just a tiny indication of the joy radiating off him.

  “Hey, kiddo,” my dad says gruffly, shooting a worried look between August and me. My dad knows August is pissed he hasn’t been here. While I told my dad it was his choice and I wouldn’t weigh in with an opinion, I know I’ve been a little distant when he calls to check on Sam. While I totally understand my dad’s fears—as I had them, too, at one point—I was a little miffed he chose to play it safe. Especially given all we’ve learned from August about the threat to our safety not being all that great these days.

  Regardless, he’s here now. I offer a smile I doubt he can see beneath my mask. Moving past the chair I’d been sitting in and over to him, I offer him a welcoming hug. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey, sweet pea,” he replies gruffly as he clasps onto me, the teddy bear squished between us. “Your ol’ dad welcome here?”

  “Of course,” I mumble.

  We hug briefly before breaking part, my dad turning his sole focus on Sam, meaning he doesn’t acknowledge August in any way. They didn’t part on particularly good terms since August told my dad he was a fool and a coward for not coming to Vegas to be with Sam. This was, of course, all outside of Sam’s earshot, but I expect Sam’s probably wise enough to know there are bad vibes between the two. When we engage in discussion about my dad and August doesn’t seem overly interested, it’s a pretty clear indication to our son there’s some sore feelings.

  But it’s the least of my worries right now.

  Sam is beyond excited to see his grandpa. He’s practically bouncing in his bed—the same bed he was puking from just yesterday—and all looks right in my kid’s world as they hug. Say whatever about my dad and the things he’s done, but Sam is crazy about him. My father has had a profound influence on Sam—the man he’ll be someday will be in large part due to the help my father gave me in raising him.

  “You came,” Sam says gleefully, his expression saying he’d known he would all along.

  “Sure did,” my dad replies, chucking Sam on the shoulder. “Got some time off work, so it’s all good.”

  No mention about leaving protective custody or what that means. Sam knows that’s an issue, but he doesn’t bring it up. It’s a discussion I’m sure we’ll have later. For now, I’m just going to let my son bask in his grandfather’s love and attention.

  A touch to my shoulder makes me jump, and I whirl around to find August has vacated his chair. “How about we go get a cup of coffee?”

  I survey my dad and Sam as they chatter together. Sam points out his IV, then names the medications currently being dripped into his bloodstream. He proudly says he hasn’t vomited since yesterday before describing what will happen during the transplant.

  I could use a cup of coffee. Sam’s in good hands. I can totally take fifteen minutes away from him without issue now that we’re on the downswing and he’s doing so well. Don’t really want to, but it might be good for me.

  When I gesture to August, he follows. Outside the room, we ditch our isolation gowns in a specialty container. I have no clue where the cafeteria is, so I let August take the lead. He’s become a pro at learning his way around this hospital over the last week.

  He buys himself a black coffee and me a latte, and we sit in a booth near the rear of the room. Given it’s between the breakfast and lunch rush, it’s fairly private.

  Not that privacy is needed. We just sip at our brews in silence.

  “You know we’ve got a tough road ahead,” August says, causing my eyes to lift from my coffee to him.

  This is not news, so I just nod.

  “And I’m not just talking about Sam,” he continues, his gaze becoming more focused and pointed. “You cannot stay here for his entire hospitalization. You’re barely functioning right now. We’ll work something out, but you need time away. Healthy food and rest. I’m sure between you, me, and Mike, we can come up with a schedule so someone is always with Sam.”

  I hear what he’s saying, but it doesn’t compute. It’s hard to concentrate on anything. “We’ll see,” I reply vaguely.

  August puts his arms on the table, leaning across the table. “I need a promise, Leighton. You’re going to run yourself into the ground if you don’t take some time away from here.”

  Is he telling me how to parent? The notion offends me. “It’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business,” he replies smoothly. “Sam is my son.”

  “Agreed,” I snap. “And when it concerns Sam, we can discuss it. But we’re talking about me, and my choices are my own.”

  “Your choices are poor,” August retorts.

  The burst of anger within me is fiery, providing me with an energy I wasn’t feeling just ten seconds ago. Throwing my arms outward, I sneer. “Oh, here we go again. Let’s point out what a terrible person I am. I’m quite sure it’s the penance I’ll cont
inually have to pay for what I did. Always having you throw in my face I’m a horrible mother for keeping Sam away from you all these years.”

  “You’re goddamn right I will,” he snarls. “It’s no less than you deserve.”

  And just like that, the subtle and unspoken truce we seemed to have reached over the last week Sam’s been getting chemo evaporates.

  “Fine,” I growl, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry. I decide to go full-on martyr. “I’ll apologize to you… yet again. I know it was wrong to keep him from you. It was the wrong choice, and I’m a horrible person because of it. Knowing what I know now—being better informed—I’d obviously do things differently. But, damn it, August, I had no guidance. I was only nineteen when I had Sam. I was doing the best I could with what I had, and I was terrified we were in grave danger. It had been drilled into me over and over again to keep our heads down, because if we popped them up, we’d get them lopped off. And once Sam arrived, that fear not only extended to him, but it also amplified by a million times. I was terrified for my child, so it was easier to stay hidden. It felt safest for him, even though my heart bled because he didn’t get to know you—the amazing person I loved. But please remember, the next time you’re throwing around your nastiness toward me, I was just being a mom. Plain and simple. I was never doing it to hurt you. You just came out on the losing end of my choice, and I’m sorry for it.”

  I can see my tirade has set him back. He watches me guardedly, worried I might continue to rant. His voice is soft, calming. “Look… I get you were scared when it first happened. But your dad testified over eight years ago. I mean, didn’t you think it might be safe to reach out to me over time? Did you ever consider going to your handler and asking if you could?”

  Once again, I’m bone tired. Energy completely depleted, because nothing I ever say in my defense will be good enough for August. He wants to pound my stupidity into the ground.

  I just shake my head, my tone flat and indifferent. He doesn’t think I cared about him at all, so why try to convince him otherwise? “No, I didn’t.”

  His mouth flattens and his eyes turn hard, but wisely… he keeps his peace because I’m done arguing about it.

  I push out of my chair, nabbing my coffee, then glance down. “I’m going to the room. And I’ll say it one more time—I’m sorry for wronging you. I’ll keep apologizing however often you need me to. Please don’t ever think I don’t understand what I deprived you of because I do. If I could make it right, I would. But right now, I just don’t have it in me to keep hashing this out.”

  August digests my words. I can see the conflict deep in his eyes as he tries to accept what I’m saying but isn’t able to reconcile it with his bitter feelings for all he’s lost.

  But right now, I have a son I need to be with, which is more important than trying to convince August of something he’ll never understand.

  CHAPTER 13

  August

  My life has settled into a routine. For now, I’m content. First and foremost, Sam is doing very well. He’s ten days post-transplant, and there’s been no signs of infection or graft vs. host disease, which is where my donor cells could potentially attack the healthy ones in Sam’s body. Of course, they’re giving him a host of antibiotics and anti-virals and God knows what else to combat against infections.

  If he continues on this path, he’s looking at only a few more weeks in the hospital. Of course, he has to have certain count levels of hematocrits, platelets, and neutrophils. I’ve learned so much medical knowledge over the last few weeks that I’m brimming with it. And when he finally comes home, he still has a road of recovery to go down… for his blood counts to return to normal and his immune system to be healthy. He’ll have frequent follow-ups with the transplant team and blood draws. Plus, he’ll be fatigued as he recovers and there’s a lot of damn medication he’ll have to take.

  It’s a lot, but it’s better than the alternative, so we’re all feeling pretty damn great about it.

  I’m heading to Sam’s room now to relieve Leighton for the evening. While she’s agreed to take a few nights off, she’s still here every day to spend time with Sam. Mike and I fill in for her, sometimes even overlapping our visits. There are times when all three of us are in the room with him together.

  Leighton and I have settled into an unspoken truce again after our “talk” in the cafeteria the day of the transplant. While I’m not going to apologize for or defend my anger, she’s clearly reached a breaking point about me throwing it in her face. I thought a lot about what she said. I tried to imagine myself in her shoes… as a single mom and fearful for Sam’s life. I’m not sure I can quite imagine it, because I don’t know what it’s like to care for a child from birth, but what I realized is that I might need to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  Regardless, I made a commitment of sorts not to throw what I deem to be a failure on her part back in her face.

  Over the last few days, everyone’s been riding such a jubilant high I’ve even forgotten to be mad at Leighton. We’ve been keeping it fun and upbeat for Sam. Playing games and sharing laughter when he feels up to it.

  I’d forgotten what a great laugh Leighton has, and I’m hearing it a lot lately as each day passes without incident.

  Most of my time with Sam consists of us asking lots of questions about each other. We’re still on a learning curve, and it’s all kinds of wonderful.

  I put on the requisite isolation gear—still a requirement—and enter Sam’s room. He and Leighton are playing a game of Scrabble, but Sam’s head pops up. Eyes lighting up, he exclaims, “Dad.”

  I hold up the bag in my hand, shaking it slightly. “Per your request.”

  “McDonald’s,” he yells, clapping his hands. “Awesome.”

  “Shh,” Leighton reprimands, giving Sam and then me a stern glare. “This is a hospital, for Pete’s sake.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper, then wink at Sam. I move to the other side of the bed, plop down in the chair, and open the bag.

  I pass Sam a box of chicken McNuggets along with some barbeque sauce, even though he’ll probably bypass it since his mouth is still a little tender from the sores. Regardless, I’m so happy the kid has a fucking appetite. McDonald’s is not something I’d ordinarily indulge in because the food is crap, but it’s such a blessing that Sam wants to eat, so I wasn’t about to say “no”.

  I reach into the bag, grab the Quarter Pounder for Leighton, and hand it across the bed to where she sits on the other side. She takes it, blinking in surprise. “How did you know what I like?”

  Shrugging, I say, “It’s what you liked in high school. Figured it was the same now.”

  Honestly, I hadn’t thought twice about it. Just unconsciously ordered it. It’s such an odd thing to remember about someone from years ago.

  I pull out a Big Mac, which was my go-to when I was young, dumb, and didn’t give a shit about my health. My mouth waters at the smell, and I realize it’s been years since I’ve eaten one. Not back to the days when I dated Leighton, but still… a long damn time.

  All three of us chow down on our heart-clogging food with relish, because Sam is doing well and that means it’s a celebration of sorts. I’ll bring the kid McDonald’s every day as long as he continues to improve like he has been.

  After the food is gone, Leighton cleans up. She bends over to kiss Sam’s forehead through her paper mask. “Okay… you two have fun tonight. Don’t stay up too late because rest is important.”

  Oh, she has no clue. The nights I stay, Sam and I talk well into the night. We talk about sports, movies, and video games. I regale him with some of my more adventurous cases and missions both as a cop and a member of Jameson while I make him recount the most mundane of things from his first nine years.

  “We’ll go to bed early,” I promise, glancing at the reclining chair that’s torture to sleep in.

  “Scout’s honor,” Sam says earnestly, and only I notice his fingers crossed beneath the table.r />
  Leighton rolls her eyes, knowing with a mother’s intuition he’s not telling the truth. I can tell by the way her eyes crinkle that she’s not bothered by it in the slightest.

  “Well, I’m out of here. Guess I’ll go see what your grandpa is up to tonight.”

  “He’s actually out,” I say. Her eyes flare with surprise. “He wanted to hit up a casino, and well… you know… when in Vegas.”

  “Huh,” she says with contemplation. “I didn’t know gambling was his thing.”

  I can’t help but chuckle. “I don’t think it is. He doesn’t play much more than quarter slots.”

  “He’s been before?” she asks curiously.

  I glance at Sam, waggling my eyebrows above my mask, then return to Leighton. “Truth be told… I think there’s a pretty waitress he’s flirting with there.”

  Leighton’s jaw drops. “My dad? Flirting?”

  Sam snickers. “Go Grandpa.”

  Sighing, Leighton just shakes her head. “So much for being afraid to venture out.”

  Sam and I shoot each other an amused look.

  “Whatever,” she says breezily, leaning down for one more kiss to Sam’s forehead. “I’m going to go home and relax. I’ll see you tomorrow, baby.”

  “Okay, Mom,” he replies, not in the least bit grossed out by his mother’s affection. Instead, he closes his eyes briefly to cherish it.

  Leighton ruffles his hair, shoots me a wave, and turns to leave.

  “Oh,” I call just as she steps outside the door, her mask already pulled off. Leighton turns, eyebrows raised, and stays outside in the hall “I finished your laundry.”

  Even from across the room, I can see her cheeks turn pink. Turns out, she’d ran a small cycle of silky delicates and left them in the washing machine. I’d needed to do my laundry today.

  “I went ahead and dried them on the lowest cycle,” I continue. “Folded them, too.”

  Leighton has some nice lingerie. I wonder what type of men she dates since she buys such pretty, sexy things. The stuff’s not expensive—definitely not real silk—but it’s very lacy and see through.