Washed Up (Bayside Heroes)

“Ew,” David says with a wrinkled nose, but Greg smirks, taking a sip of his water and avoiding eye contact with me.

“I’m more concerned about riding on the bus than I am going to class,” I confess.

That gets Greg’s attention. “Bus?”

“Her car is totaled,” David clarifies. “I’m working on finding her a new one for the amount her insurance offered her, but…”

“But it was a twenty-year-old Toyota,” I finish for him. “So, it’s worth roughly the amount of the used couch cushion under my ass, if even.”

David sighs, his brows folding together, and my heart aches at the burden my son feels for me. It’s the last thing I ever want to be for him or anyone else — a burden — and yet with how badly the house is breaking down, and now my car…

“You’re going to school?” Greg muses after a long pause of silence, and I can tell by the way he looks at me that he does it to save me from getting too lost in thought.

Is he really this in tune with me, even after all the time that’s passed?

“I am,” I say with a smile.

“For?”

“Psychology. I… I want to be a therapist.”

Greg swallows, looking something between impressed and proud. “That’s amazing. Congratulations.”

I laugh at that. “Well, don’t congratulate me yet. I’m only in my second year.” I shake my head. “Turns out going to college in your forties isn’t easy.”

“You don’t have to do it,” David tries, but I pin him with a glare.

“Don’t.”

He snaps his mouth shut at that, a nod letting me know he won’t try to argue again. We’ve had this conversation far too many times. He thinks the answer is for him and his wife to find a bigger place, one with a mother-in-law suite, so I can live with them rent-free.

But I’m forty-seven, not eighty-seven.

I still have a life to live.

And I don’t want his money, or my ex-husband’s, to live it.

“Use my car.”

The glare I’m giving my son softens, and I blink, looking at Greg with my brows tugging inward. “What?”

“You can use my car,” he reiterates.

David and I both look at him like he’s crazy.

“I don’t need it,” he says with a shrug. “I mean, I live within biking distance of the hospital. I don’t really go anywhere that’s not downtown. I’ll be fine without it for a while until you get a new one.”

I blink, staring at him.

And then I burst out in laughter.

“I’m serious,” he says. “It’s really not a problem.”

I shake my head. “I can’t take your car, Greg. What if you need it for something?”

“I won’t.”

“What if you do.”

He shakes his head, shrugging. “Then… I’ll call you. If I really need to run an errand or something that is farther than I can bike, I’ll call you and you can just take me.”

I laugh again, but then I look at my son, who has this look on his face that tells me he’s already sold on the idea.

“David,” I try. “I’m fine. I can take the bus for a while. We’ll find a car soon. It’ll all be okay.”

“Maybe this would make it easier,” he argues. “Just for a little while. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about you.”

“You don’t need to wor—”

“Mom,” he says, leveling his gaze.

I gape at him, looking between him and Greg and feeling like a child.

I huff. “Is this what it’s all about? Raise a kid only to have him treat you like one when you’re older?”

“Just wait until I make you wear one of those Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! necklaces.”

I flick him off.

“It’s really not a problem,” Greg insists, fishing into his pocket. He pulls out a little key fob. “Truly. I can leave it here tonight, even. That is, if you can give me a ride back to my place?” he asks David, who agrees instantly.

I sigh. “Well, clearly, my arguments are no good with you two.”

“Never were,” David says, and then to Greg, “Thank you, man. Really. This helps us out a lot.”

“It’s no problem at all,” he says, and then his eyes find mine, and I swear there’s a whole lifetime of words inside those warm irises, but he doesn’t speak a single one into existence.

Instead, he stands, crossing the living room and pressing the fob into my palm. His fingers linger there, brushing along the inside of my knuckles, but he pulls away before I can overanalyze whether he even realized he did it at all or not.

I stare at the fob for a long moment, breath far too hard to grasp, and then I lift my gaze to his.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

The corner of his mouth lifts just marginally, and he nods.

Maybe it’s the pain meds kicking in, but the moment seems to stretch on forever — him looking down at me, me staring up at him, years of time gone by hanging between us like live wires ready to spark and set flame to the whole house.