Stupid Girl(108)

“’Bout time you got your little fancy pants college ass here,” Jilly whispered, and my eyes jerked to his. They were open now, a little glassy, and … tired. His weak voice hardly sounded like it belonged to my loud, boisterous grandfather. “You here to bust me out, Lil’ Bit? The food here tastes like horseshit.”

Despite the tears welling up in my eyes, I couldn’t help but smile. “Yeah, I bet it does.” I gently tugged his hand. “Come on, Jilly. I got the truck running by the emergency room exit.”

Jilly gave a light laugh, but it was weak, barely there. “Just give me a minute. I gotta find my drawers first. Fool nurses took all my goddamned clothes.” He blinked, and I hardly felt the pressure as he squeezed my hand. “Damned ticker ain’t worth a shit either, darlin’. Guess I ate too many pork rinds.”

A sob caught in my throat. “Jilly,” and I leaned over him, rested my head against his chest, and slipped my arms around him. “Stop it.”

Behind me, I heard Mom’s sniffles. Tears fell from my lids onto Jilly’s hospital gown, and somehow my weakened grandfather found the strength to lift his arms and embrace me. “Quit all that cryin’ now, girl. You’re getting my damn dress all soggy.”

I hugged him tighter. “No.”

Jilly gave another weak laugh and let his arms fall to his sides. “Come up here, then. I got somethin’ to tell you. And I ain’t got the strength to talk much anymore.” He sighed, and I lifted my head from his chest. “I’m damned tired as hell.”

For the first time in my entire life, my grandfather looked frail. Like he couldn’t wrangle a horse to the ground. Or drink a man half his age under the table. Or beat anyone’s ass. He looked old. Before my eyes, he was fading, like a gas light running empty. How could this be happening? It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. I leaned close, my ear to his mouth.

“I ain’t gonna be around to make sure the man you choose is good enough,” he whispered. “You don’t accept anything less than the one who puts you first, Olivia. Above anything else.”

Through tears I pulled back and looked at Jilly, and his eyes were clear and tired at once. His gray brows furrowed. “You hear me, girl? Nothin’ less than first.”

“Yes, sir,” I choked out. “Brax is here. He drove me from Winston.”

Jilly’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Ya’ll get out. Send him in. Alone.”

Surprise made me pause, blink. But I knew better than to question. “Yes, sir.”

I exchanged glances with my family, then we all headed out to the waiting room. Brax was sitting in a chair, legs sprawled, elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced. When we walked in, he looked up, and his gaze found mine. He stood.

“Jilly wants to see you, son,” my mom told Brax. “Alone.”

Brax stiffened, squared his shoulders, and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Just through there, third room on the left,” Mom said.

Brax drew in a long breath, then disappeared out of the waiting room. I sat between Mom and Kyle, and none of us spoke a word. Mom held my hand. Kyle had his arm around me. What in the world could Jilly be saying to Brax? I hoped Brax looked him in the eye. Jilly despised any man who couldn’t look him in the eye.

“So are you two okay now?” Mom asked. “He seems like a decent boy. Dropped everything to bring you here.”

“I don’t know what we are, Mom,” I answered. “But yes, he is a decent boy.” I looked at her. “I don’t want to be here.” Kyle’s arm tightened around me. “None of this is right.”

“I know, baby,” Mom said softly, and rested her hand on my knee. “I know.”

It was a few minutes later when Brax came walking back into the waiting room. His eyes again found mine, his expression unreadable. He took a seat across from me and kept silent. But every time I looked at him, he was looking at me, too. I thought he probably didn’t know how to take all of this in; my family, the hospital. Facing Jilly alone. I was pretty sure he’d never experienced anything like it before.

Throughout the night we took turns sitting with Jilly. Each time I entered his room, he looked weaker, paler, and as I sat beside his bed on my third visit, holding his hand, he squeezed. Barely. It was the last time.

Jilly died at four forty three a.m. I knew this because he had a big clock on the wall that clicked so loud, I could hear each second as distinctive and clear as if someone stood thumping a watermelon. Jilly hadn’t opened his eyes for hours, and I stared at the little hollow dip in his throat where his pulse had slowed. His chest had stopped rising and falling. My mom sat on the other side of the bed and she’d noticed it, too. We all had.